





Class ?Zs 
Book C 3*8,5 R 


Gopjaight N° 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


r 






Brother and Sister 


BY 


JEAN CHARRUAU, S. J. 


Translated by 
S. T. OTTEN 


ST. LOUIS, MO., 1904 
PUBLISHED BY B. HERDER 


17 SOUTH BROADWAY 


pZ'i . 


f LIBRARY Of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

DEC 3! 1904 

Oopyrignt Entry 

3J, / 9 O*/ 
CUSS a. XXc. Nos 


COPY 8. 


J 


Copyright 1904 
By Jos. Gummersbach. 


c ( 

< < t 


Becktold Printing and Book Mfg. Co., St I,ouis, Mo., U. S. A. 


This translation appeared 
serially in 

“The Dolphin” 

during 1904. 



CONTENTS 


PART I. 

Early Years. 

Page. 

Chapter I. Orphans 1 

II. My Aunt’s Home 17 

III. The Rise and Decline of Aunt 

Dumoulin 26 

IV. Marguerite 51 

V. The Devil’s Pool 93 

PART II. 

Silhouettes from Anjou. 

VI. Good Men and Women 106 

VIL Aunt Dumoulin’s Thursdays 134 

VIII. The Whites and the Blues 154 

PART III. 

The School Boy. 

“ IX. The School in the Woods 179 

“ X. The College 201 

“ XI. The Smiles of Years Gone By 229 

“ XII. Broken Hearts 239 

XIII. The Old People Pass Away 252 

PART IV. 

The Ransom of a Soul. 

“ XIV. How a Battle is Lost 261 

“ XV. Evil Days 279 

“ XVI. The Prodigal Son 298 

“ XVII. The Angel of Mercy 314 

“ XVIII. A Life for a Life 323 

“ XIX. The Devil’s Pool (1862) 336 

“ XX. From Beyond the Tomb 347 

Epilogue 376 

Appendix 379 


BROTHER AND SISTER.' 

“/ love to find once more beneath the ashes of old 
age the live coals of memory .” 

Now, in life’s evening hour, having already crossed “the 
unpitying threshold of old age,” * 2 I like to trace once more 
to its source the stream which is so soon to lose itself in 
the ocean of eternity; to find again in memory’s treasure 
house the loved faces of those who have passed from this 
world before me, but whom the lapse of time can never 
cause me to forget. Sometimes there passes in the midst 
of these fair visions an evil shade which makes me shudder 
in spite of myself: it is the thought of those who have done 
me evil. Thanks be to God, I bear them no ill will, but for- 
give them with all my heart. It is only right that I should, 
since I myself have so much need of pardon. 

For the last few years I have been transferring these 
reminiscences to paper at odd times as they have presented 
themselves. The scattered notes have been a consolation 
to me in the trials which it has pleased God to send me in 
my later years. The thought that these writings might be 
of service to others than myself never occurred to me, 
until some of my friends seriously urged me to publish 
them in the belief that they would be productive of good. 
At first I protested, but I ended by yielding, although they 
say the old never yield. Let these pages go forth, then, 
wherever the good Lord' wills! Some may perhaps cause 
a smile, while others bring tears. Such is life! “Laughter 
shall be mingled with sorrow, and mourning taketh hold of 
the end of joy,” 3 says Holy Writ. 

So I have reduced to something like order these fagots 
which I hope my readers will receive with indulgence. If 
there are some tedious passages, they will not cause sur- 
prise. Is not old age proverbially fond of story-telling? 

Paul Leclere. 

La Hutterie, near Saint-Laurent-sur-Gemme, Anjou. 

a The author desires to state that all the names of the per- 
sons referred to in these papers (except certain historic names) 
are entirely fictitious. The same remark applies to the little' 
town of Saint-Laurent-sur-Gemme, an imaginary place which 
has nothing in common with the other Saint Laurents in Anjou. 

2 Homer’s Iliad. Chapman, XXIV, line 487. 

3 Prov. 14:13. 


PART I. 

EARLY YEARS. 


CHAPTER I. 

ORPHANS. 

I WAS born at the Hutterie, in the parish of Saint- 
■ Laurent-sur-Gemme, in Anjou, on June 29, 
1842. I received in Baptism the name of Paul, in 
honor of the great Apostle whose feast the Church 
celebrates on that day. I was the youngest of eight 
children, of whom only the two oldest, Charles and 
Marguerite, were still living at the time of my birth. 
My father and mother had the misfortune to lose 
two girls and three boys in infancy, but my dear 
parents, good Christians that they were, consoled 
themselves by the thought that they had given angels 
to heaven, and that these blessed little ones protected 
from on high their three remaining children. 

My brother Charles, at that time seventeen years 
old, was pursuing his studies at the High School 
in Angers, and intended to enter the army. Mar- 
guerite, “Guitte” or “Guiguitte,” as we generally 
called her, had just entered upon her thirteenth year, 
and was being taught by my mother, who did not 
wish to send her away from home. 

My father, Frangois Feclere, born at Vannes, in 


2 


Brother and Sister. 


1798, entered the army at the age of eighteen as a 
volunteer. He took part in the campaigns in Spain, 
Greece, and Algiers, and his brilliant services soon 
advanced him to the grade of captain, although he 
rose from the ranks. At that time, promotion was 
more rapid than it is at present. The day I was born, 
my father attained the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel. 
Full of faith and pious from his childhood up, he 
preserved throughout his youth his religious convic- 
tions in all their original intensity, and also the in- 
tegrity of his conduct. He was a militant Catholic, 
and God did not allow this to hinder his advance 
in his profession, although in those days practical 
Catholics were regarded with marked suspicion by 
those in power. 

Toward the end of the year 1824, my father, who 
had just been made lieutenant after the Spanish cam- 
paign, was in garrison at Angers. Introduced by 
the pastor of the cathedral, by whom he was held 
in high esteem, he was very kindly received by the 
Legrand family. They were people of middle sta- 
tion, but very well thought of by their associates 
and even by those of higher social rank. Monsieur 
and Madame Legrand had a daughter named Laur- 
ence, who had just left school and who was remark- 
able among the young girls of her age for her piety 
and sweet disposition. 

My father, before long, realized that he was drawn 
toward Mile. Laurence, and that a tender affection 
for her had taken root in his heart. He asked her 


Orphans. 


3 


hand in marriage of her parents. They appreciated 
the upright character of the young officer, and did 
not hesitate to confide their daughter to his keeping ; 
so in November, 1824, they were married. 1 

The young people’s start in life was more than 
modest, although my grandparents practised the 
strictest economy in order to provide a suitable es- 
tablishment for their children. At her marriage my 
mother, relinquishing at the same time all further 
claim upon her parents’ estate, received a small place 
of about a hundred acres called the Hutterie, situ- 
ated in the department of Maine-et-Loire, a little 
more than eighteen miles from Angers. This was 
all the property her parents owned. They reserved 
for themselves only a small life income barely suf- 
ficient for their support. The Hutterie, rented out 
in two holdings, brought, on an average, some fifteen 
hundred francs a year. As for my father, his sole 
capital was his good health, his lieutenant’s pay and 
the prospect of promotion. This was enough to 
begin with, but in case Kind Providence should send 
many children, there was, doubtless, hardship in 
store. Poor in this world’s goods, but rich in confi- 
dence in God, my parents did not hesitate to decide 
the question, and entered joyously upon the pathway 
of the Christian life, resolving valiantly to accom- 
plish their task and to keep the Cross well in sight. 
They kept their resolution. 

1 My maternal grandfather died the following year, 1825, and 
my grandmother survived him but two years, so that I never 
knew them. 


4 


Brother and Sister. 


During the first years of their married life, they 
lived in different garrison towns, in Nantes, Bor- 
deaux, and Grenoble, but in the spring of 1840 my 
mother’s health gave grave cause for alarm, and 
the physicians ordered a prolonged sojourn in the 
country. With this end in view, my father obtained 
another tbur of duty at Angers, and the young wife 
took up her abode permanently at the Hutterie, where 
her husband joined her whenever his duties per- 
mitted. 

The Hutterie is a large two-story house set in the 
midst of trees half-way up a lovely hillside at the 
foot of which babbles a little stream called the Gem- 
me, whose waters, clear and limpid as the name 
indicates, flow on to lose themselves at last in the 
Loire a little below Saint-Florent. 

Here we are in the war-like Vendee, the country 
of glorious memories, the scene of the “War of Gi- 
ants.” 

The Hutterie is within the limits of Saint-Laurent- 
sur-Gemme, a parish of some eighteen hundred or 
two thousand souls, at that time in charge of an 
old friend of our family, Abbe Aubry, with his two 
assistants, Father Berteaux and Father Renaud. 

Our house had none of the comforts or elegance 
of the modern villa. It was a plain, sensibly-ar- 
ranged dwelling, large and airy and in excellent re- 
pair, all that could be desired for a family to whom 
Providence had given what was necessary, but noth- 
ing more. 


Orphans. 


5 


My parents there lived a quiet and retired life, 
occupied wholly in cultivating their little domain and 
bringing up their children. Their only associates 
were the pastor of the parish ; the family of Maitre 
Hardy, the notary at Saint-Laurent ; the Ducoudrays 
(two old bachelors, very distant cousins of ours) ; 
Dr. Durand, and an aunt of my mother’s, Mile. 
Dumoulin, whom we occasionally went to see at her 
place, Mesnil, which adjoined the Hutterie. We 
also saw from time to time the noble family of the 
neighborhood, the Saint-Juliens, although their sta- 
tion in life was far above our own. They lived in 
Angers during the winter and spent the summers 
at Aulnaie, their property, a magnificent estate which 
extended as far as Saint-Florent. The Count and 
Countess Saint-Julien had the greatest regard for 
my father and mother, and used often to come to 
the Hutterie with their only son, Monsieur Rene, 
who was about the age of Charles, and like him, 
was destined for the army. 

To complete the list of local celebrities, I have still 
to mention my mother’s uncle, Monsieur Chupin- 
Lenoir, who had made a large fortune in the leather 
business. Old and childless, he lived a lonely and 
retired life in a chateau in the neighborhood, but as 
he was a free-thinker and a notorious Freemason, 
my father never would consent to receive him at 
the Hutterie, although when my mother was first 
married he had made several attempts to establish 
friendly relations. It must be acknowledged that 


6 


Brother and Sister. 


there was considerable merit in repelling these ad- 
vances, for Uncle Chupin was reputed to be worth 
at least two millions, and my parents might very 
naturally have cherished the idea of some day en- 
joying this handsome fortune, which would have 
insured a brilliant future for their children; but 
with them the first consideration was the interest 
of our souls and our eternal salvation, and they pre- 
ferred for us straitened circumstances and even pov- 
erty, to ease procured at the expense of endangering 
our faith. 

In the eyes of many people they would be con- 
sidered foolish, but true Christians will realize that 
they were possessed of the highest wisdom. 

I learned these details from my sister, Marguerite, 
for at the time of which I write I was too young to 
take cognizance of such matters. 

My earliest recollections bring before me a terrible 
scene which, in spite of my tender age, was forever 
stamped upon my memory. It was in the month 
of June, 1848. I was about to enter on my seventh 
year. One day father and mother, who had seemed 
very sad for some time, shut themselves in their 
room after luncheon and remained there all the after- 
noon and far into the evening. Dinner was ready, 
and our old nurse, Franchise, had knocked at their 
door a number of times without receiving any re- 
sponse. At last they came down. Mother’s eyes 
were red, and father seemed very absent-minded. 
After dinner my poor father caressed us for a long 


Orphans. 


7 


time — Marguerite and me — and told us we must 
be very good and not give my mother any trouble 
during his absence. He said that he must leave for 
Paris next day with his regiment, and that he would 
take my brother Charles with him . 1 When I asked 
him why he had to leave us, he said that there were 
many “bad children” in Paris, and that soldiers were 
being sent there to make them good . 2 

“I depend on you, Marguerite,” he said. “You 
are now almost eighteen. Comfort and sustain your 
mother. Pray for me. Ask God to give me grace 
to do my duty — my whole duty.” A few moments 
later he mounted his horse, and left with Charles 
for Angers. 

I did not understand much of what father had 
said to us. I cried because my mother and sister 
cried, but next day I forgot all about it and went 
back to my play as usual. 

One morning at about eight o’clock (I learned 
later that it was the twenty-eighth of June) I was 
alone with my mother in her room. Marguerite was 
practising on the piano downstairs in the parlor. I 
had just finished saying my prayers, when the maid 
came in and handed the paper to mother, who 
hastily opened it and began to read eagerly. She 
had done so every day since father went away. 

1 Charles had left Saint-Cyr two years before, and had just 
been made lieutenant in father’s regiment. 

2 Those terrible days of June, 1848, when the blood of so 
many Frenchmen was shed, were not far off. My father was to 
be one of the first victims. 


8 


Brother and Sister. 


Suddenly I saw her tremble, grow dreadfully pale, 
and lean over on the table. An instant later she fell 
to the floor, where she lay without the least sign 
of life. I rushed to her and began to call her with 
all my might. Then, thinking she was dead, I 
screamed at the top of my voice, which brought 
Marguerite and the maid running upstairs. They 
lifted my mother on to the bed, and she opened her 
eyes an instant, and pointed toward the paper which 
had fallen to the floor. 

“There!” she said, in a weak but distinct tone, 
“the horrible thing — it is not true, is it, Marguer- 
ite?” 

My sister stooped to pick up the paper. No sooner 
had she cast her eyes upon it than she began to 
tremble violently, while tears coursed down her 
cheeks. Falling on her knees before the crucifix, she 
cried, “O God, have mercy on my father’s soul! 
Have mercy on my dear mother ! Save her !” 

She rose and returned to where mother lay ap- 
parently lifeless. 

“Run, quick, for the priest and the doctor!” she 
said to the maid. “Perhaps there is still time ;” and 
she strove to revive poor mother, while old Francoise 
ran with all her might to Saint-Laurent. 

All this time I stood motionless, paralyzed with 
fear. I felt, in a confused way, that something had 
happened to father, but I dared not ask what, for 
fear of hearing something dreadful. I wanted to 
cry out, but my throat refused to utter a sound. 


Orphans. 


9 


The room seemed to turn around, I felt myself fall- 
ing, and then I lost consciousness. 

When I came to myself, I was on Guitte’s lap, 
with her arms about me. “Come, Paul dear,” she 
said. “Come over to mother. She wants you.” And 
she carried me to mother’s bed. 

The doctor was there, and also our pastor, both 
of them much distressed, for they were old friends 
of our family. Mother had regained consciousness, 
but she seemed very weak. She stretched out her 
arms to me, and gathered me to her breast. Then 
she motioned Marguerite to come near. 

“Swear to me, daughter,” she said. “Lay your 
hand on the crucifix and promise me that you will 
be a mother to your brother Paul.” 

Marguerite raised her hand, and, in a trembling 
voice, did as she was desired. 

“And you, Paul,” continued mother, “promise me 
that you will look on Marguerite as your mother, 
and obey her as you would me.” 

I promised, without well knowing what I said, 
for I was choked with grief. 

“Good-bye, children,” my mother then said. “I 
am going to join your father in heaven. I have no 
fear for him. He was well prepared. As for my- 
self, in spite of my sins, I trust in the mercy of my 
Saviour, and I go without fear before the judgment- 
seat of Jesus Christ. But I am tormented about 
Charles ! What has become of him ? Mary, Mother 
Immaculate, I leave him in your care! Good-bye, 


10 


Brother and Sister. 


my children. We will watch over you from above.” 
Then she ceased speaking, and became terribly pale. 

The doctor turned his head. “Take away the 
child,” he said; and I saw the priest kneel down 
with Marguerite and my nurse. Then I was seized 
with violent convulsions, and lost consciousness a 
second time. 

Next day, when I opened my eyes, my sister was 
sitting by my bed with our good pastor. 

“Come, Paul dear,” she said, “you must say your 
prayers with me, as you used to do with mother 
every morning. Mamma is in heaven now, and so 
is papa, and they are praying for their dear little 
Paul that God will make him always good so that 
some day he may go there too and be with them.” 

I understood then, as well as a child of six can 
understand, that I had lost my dear father and 
mother, and I began to sob. My tears were a relief 
and eased my heart. I said my prayers with Mar- 
guerite, and it seemed to me that I loved her more 
than I ever did before. 

“You will be my mother now; won’t you, Gui- 
guitte ?” 

“Yes, my darling. Only you must ask our dear 
Lord to give you the grace to be very obedient.” 

Then, turning to Abbe Aubry, she said, “Isn’t it 
awful to lose both father and mother at once? 
I dreaded this all along. I was sure that if father 
were killed, mother would not survive the shock, 
for you know she had a bad form of heart disease. 


Orphans. 


11 


I tried hard to keep her from reading the paper, 
for fear that she would see bad news in it, but she 
never was willing to give it up, and was always 
the first to read it in the morning. Here, Father,” 
she added, handing the priest the paper which was 
the cause of my mother’s seizure, “this is what killed 
her.” 

And our good pastor, in a voice trembling with 
emotion, read the account of the bloody battle of the 
25th. The following is the passage describing my 
father’s death : 

“Why must the triumph of law and order be saddened by 
the sacrifice of valuable lives? At the moment of going to press 
we learn of the death of the gallant Colonel Leclere, who was 
shot through the heart as he advanced to the assault of the 
barricade in the Faubourg du Temple. A shot fired from an 
upper window brought the brave officer to the ground, and a 
few moments later he expired in the arms of his son, Lieutenant 
Charles Leclere, who happened to be near his father when he 
was struck. We extend to the family of this noble officer our 
deep and sincere sympathy.” 

Further on it said : 

“We are told that General Cavaignac decorated for meritor- 
ious services in action Lieutenant Leclere, who during the entire 
morning exposed himself to the greatest danger in the per- 
formance of his duties, and led his command in a most efficient 
manner. The General unfastened the cross of honor which 
adorned the breast of the lamented Colonel, and, turning to the 
son of the dead man, said, ‘France transfers to your breast the 
cross of your heroic father. Walk in his footsteps and you will 
be a valiant soldier.’ This praise, so well deserved, will, we 
hope, soften to some extent the overwhelming grief of the 
young officer and of his family.” 

Hardly had the Abbe finished reading this when 
a letter was brought in from Charles, announcing 
that he would arrive that very evening with our 
father’s body. Poor brother! as yet he was aware 
of only half of his misfortune. 


12 


Brother and Sister. 


“I will hurry over to Angers, my dear Marguer- 
ite,^ said our kind-hearted pastor, “and be there 
when Charles arrives, so as to prepare him as gently 
as possible for this fresh blow.” 

My sister gratefully agreed to this proposition 
of Abbe Aubry, and he left at once, in order to reach 
the station before Charles could arrive. 

How long that day seemed! We both dreaded 
and longed for Charles to come. At last our poor 
brother came to us : it was pitiful to see him. The 
fatigue of two days’ fighting and the long sorrowful 
journey had completely exhausted him. We threw 
ourselves into his arms, and all three wept a long 
time there in mother’s room where they had placed 
the two coffins. 

I remember well how Marguerite begged the 
friends who were also there weeping, to leave us to 
ourselves for a little. When we were alone we 
knelt down beside the mortal remains of my father 
and mother. Marguerite made me say the prayers 
which I had said every day with mother. Then she 
made me promise with my hand upon the bodies 
of our parents ever to remain faithful to God and 
to be ready to die rather than offend Him by a mor- 
tal sin. Afterwards I heard poor Guitte say be- 
tween her sobs, “My God, I offer you my life for 
this child whose mother I have now become. I will 
sacrifice myself entirely. I am ready to suffer any 
bodily pain, and to be completely mortified in my 
desires and affections, if only Paul may one day 
reach heaven.” 


Orphans. 


13 


I did not then fully understand what she was 
saying. I only grasped the general meaning of her 
words ; but years later when I read, after my sister’s 
death, notes which she had made on events con- 
cerning her spiritual life, I found among them this 
prayer which she had said beside the coffins of 
my parents. I will show how this heroic sacrifice 
was accepted. 

Charles, too, bowed with grief, joined in Marguer- 
ite’s fervent prayer and, like me, promised to be 
faithful to his God. He, at least, would keep his 
vow ! He then told us all the circumstances of fa- 
ther’s glorious death. The barricade had been suc- 
cessfully assaulted, and father, standing sword in 
hand upon the obstruction composed of paving 
stones, which he had just captured, turned to give an 
order to his command, when he was hit in the heart 
by a bullet shot from a window near by. Charles it 
was who caught him as he fell, and heard the few 
words he was still able to utter. 

“Kiss them for me,” he said. “Tell your mother 
I died at my post, and, as I firmly hope, in grace 
with God.” An instant later he said again, “I am 
at peace, I received Holy Communion this morn- 
ing. I offer up my life for France and for the 
Church.” 

These were his last words. It was just after he 
died that General Cavaignac, who had been present 
during the assault on the barricade, took father’s 
cross of honor, and placed it upon Charles’ breast. 


14 


Brother and Sister. 


Our loss was terrible indeed, but we were proud 
of father’s glorious death, and as for my mother, 
she was a saint. Everybody said so. Many people 
whom we did not know at all came from Angers 
and from places near by to the funeral, and there 
were also some officers of father’s regiment sent 
from Paris to Saint-Laurent to follow the body of 
their Colonel to the grave. All the parish priests 
of the canton were there, and our own pastor, Abbe 
Aubry, who celebrated the Mass, was interrupted 
many times by his tears. Many of the people in 
church wept, too. After Mass they carried the two 
caskets to the cemetery of Saint-Laurent, and here 
many speeches were made, but I do not remember 
a word of them. After the ceremonies we went 
back to the Hutterie with Abbe Aubry and my aunt 
Dumoulin, who stayed with us during luncheon. 

When the meal was nearly over there was a con- 
sultation as to where Marguerite and I were to live 
in the future. Charles, who was naturally our 
guardian and protector, could not stay with us. He 
was compelled to return in a few days to his post 
in Paris. Marguerite was still too young to remain 
at the Hutterie by herself. What was to become 
of us ? Our old uncle, Monsieur Chupin-Lenoir, had 
come the day before to Charles and Marguerite, and 
had offered to educate me and provide for my fu- 
ture, but his offer had been politely declined. For 
this I should be most thankful to Almighty God, 
for under the direction of such a man I should in 


Orphans. 


15 


all likelihood have lost the faith forever. Madame 
de Saint-Julien, my mother’s good friend, had come 
at once to beg Marguerite to go and live with her, 
for she loved my sister as if she were her own 
daughter, and Marguerite was devoted to her, too. 
Charles thought this a very desirable arrangement, 
and his advice was that this advantageous offer be 
accepted. But Marguerite absolutely declined to do 
so. She said that the Count and Countess, good 
Christians though they were, lived in a world which 
was very different from ours, that they were entirely 
too rich and that such surroundings would be most 
unfavorable to my being properly brought up. 

I understood later on that there were other mo- 
tives of a more intimate nature, which also actuated 
Marguerite in her decision. Her exquisite tact and 
delicacy guided her in the matter. I shall have occa- 
sion to revert to this later. 

The discussion took place at luncheon, as I said; 
and just at this point my aunt Dumoulin took the 
floor, and in her curt, dry manner, delivered herself 
as follows: 

“Chupin? Never while I live! He is an old in- 
fidel. Saint-Julien and his lady? — good people, but 
that would be bringing Paul up in a candy box, and 
you, Guitte, would soon become an affected minx with 
all those people you would see at Aulnaie. Come 
home with your old aunt Dumoulin. She is an old 
fool, but for all that she has a good heart. You’ll 
see. Your mother confided Paul to you, Guitte. 


16 


Brother and Sister. 


You shall bring him up just as you please. I shall 
not have a word to say in the matter, always pro- 
viding you do not make a Blue of him. I do not 
want to cherish a viper in my bosom ! Then when I 
cross the river (which must be before long, for I am 
seventy-five now) you will have my property. It 
is not much, but what there is of it is good. Mesnil 
has a hundred and fifty acres. If they are worth a 
farthing, they are worth a hundred thousand francs. 
Is it settled? One, two — decide!” And Mademoi- 
selle Dumoulin punctuated her speech by swallow- 
ing a glass of brandy at one draught. 

We loved my aunt very much in spite of her 
abruptness and strange ways, for she had a heart 
of gold. Charles and Marguerite were for accepting 
her offer, and Abbe Aubry fully approved, for Mile. 
Dumoulin was his right hand in all his charitable 
undertakings. They had known each other since 
the great war of the Vendee, and were old friends 
who had both seen evil days. The matter was 
settled then and there. Charles was to have the 
Hutterie, which my aunt would manage in his in- 
terest, and Marguerite and I would inherit Mesnil, 
together with some small amount which would am- 
ply suffice for our needs until such time as Mar- 
guerite should marry. 

It was decided that we should remain at the ITut- 
terie until Charles’ leave expired, and that on his 
departure for Paris we would go to Mesnil to live. 
And that is how we came to be under my aunt’s 
care. 


CHAPTER II. 


MY AUNT'S HOME. 



WAS on the first of September, 1848, that my 


■ sister and I established ourselves definitely with 
our old Aunt Dumoulin. Our belongings had been 
sent there a few days before. My brother Charles 
took us over to Mesnil, and left that same evening 
to rejoin his regiment. We were all three very sad 
at the thought of being separated for what prom- 
ised to be a long time, and, besides, it was very hard 
to leave the Hutterie. It was almost like suffering 
over again the loss of our parents, so full of mem- 
ories of them was the old home where we had lived 
so happily together. In spite of my tender age, I, 
too, gave way to violent grief, and when the time 
came to go, Charles had to take me by force and 
carry me out to the carriage. 

When we reached Mesnil, our spirits were even 
more depressed by the contrast between the place 
we had just left and that in which we must now 
take up our abode. Mesnil seemed to us as gloomy 
and unattractive as the Hutterie was bright and 
beautiful. We were no longer near the little stream 
which ran murmuring through our fields and mead- 
ows. My aunt's house was set in the midst of culti- 


17 


2 


18 


Brother and Sister. 


vated land. From the ground floor there was abso- 
lutely no vista. The view was shut off by stone walls 
or high hedges, which forbade the eye to roam at 
will over the surrounding country. There were 
scarcely any trees, grass, or flowers. My aunt, who 
knew the value of every inch of ground, would have 
considered it pure folly to devote any space to flow- 
ers or turf merely for the purpose of pleasing the 
eye. In consequence, peas, onions, hemp and po- 
tatoes flourished on all sides and displayed them- 
selves before the very door steps. 

To be strictly truthful I must mention one beauti- 
ful feature of the place — a superb avenue of chestnut 
trees which extended as far as the eye could reach, 
and led to the commons along the banks of the 
Gemme. It was the only place where one might 
find a little shade and coolness in summer. 

My sister had timidly suggested one day to my 
aunt that she come and live at the Hutterie, whence 
it would be an easy matter to manage both prop- 
erties. The worthy woman gazed at her for several 
minutes in open-mouthed astonishment for sheer lack 
of words in which to give vent to her feelings. 

“Have you lost your mind, my dear Guitte?” she 
exclaimed at length. “You want me to go and live 
at the Hutterie ? Do you think I would leave a good 
dwelling like Mesnil for a great rambling place like 
the Hutterie, where you raise nothing but roses and 
lilies? Well, I never in all my days! My dear, do 
you take me for a fool ? We shall live at Mesnil. It 


My Aunt's Home. 


19 


will be better for you and Paul, too. With me you 
will learn what order and economy are. If your 
father and mother — God rest their souls! — had* 
looked less at the blue sky and more at the world 
around them, they would, in my humble opinion, 
have succeeded better in the affairs of this world 
without any harm to those of the next. Come! 
You will soon forget about the Hutterie, and you 
will see that it is very comfortable at Mesnil — that 
I promise you. At your place, Paul would grow up 
to be a good-for-nothing — that’s certain ! My place 
is not so pretty, I acknowledge, but we make a little 
money there, and it will come in very handy when 
you have to pay for Paul’s schooling and buy your 
own wedding clothes.” 

Marguerite made a virtue of necessity, and told 
my aunt that she would be contented at Mesnil. 

“All right, little one!” replied the good woman. 
“You are still but a slip of a girl, and too much of a 
fine lady, but you will come out all right! We’ll 
see !” 

And so we arrived at Mesnil with heavy hearts, 
sad above all at having to part with my brother 
for so long a time. My aunt was waiting for us 
and greeted us heartily. The dear old lady concealed 
a tender heart under a rough exterior. 

“Come in,” she cried, embracing us warmly, “and 
do justice to your old aunt’s dinner. We have some 
good soup, a duck with olives, rum omelette, a nice 
salad, and, best of all, a glass of wine bottled in 


20 


Brother and Sister. 


1825. Charles X! There is no more wine made 
like that, let me tell you. The vintage of two years 
ago isn’t worth a farthing. Louis Philippe, indeed! 
You won’t get it every day, though. Once does not 
mean always.” 

We had been in my aunt’s room a few minutes, 
when a clumsy country girl opened the door a little 
way, and pushing head and shoulders through the 
crack, announced timidly, “Mamzelle, soup is on 
the table.” 

“Is my name Mamzelle Soup? You’ll have to 
learn a thing or two, Cillette, if you expect to enter 
the service of the nobility. You’ll never be fit for 
anything except to look after the animals.” 

“Yes, Mamzelle,” said the girl, seemingly un- 
moved by the imperious tone of her mistress. “You’d 
better look out not to burn your mouth. The soup’s 
awful hot,” she added confidentially. 

“That will do,” said my aunt. “Go back to the 
kitchen, and tell Rose to be careful not to burn the 
duck. While we dispose of the soup, you can go 
and carry cabbages to the cows, and afterwards 
come back and wait on us.” 

We followed my Aunt Dumoulin into the dining- 
room, and as our troubles had not taken away our 
appetites, we did honor to the cooking of old Rose, 
the maid of all-work of the establishment. By the 
end of the meal, our spirits had somewhat revived. 
In youth gloomy ideas are easily thrust aside, and 
we were all three so young ! 


My Aunt's Homs. 


21 


After luncheon we tearfully bade farewell to 
Charles, as he had to leave for Paris. 

“Courage, little sister!” he said to Marguerite, 
when my aunt left the room for a few moments. 
“It will not be very lively here — that I can see; 
but I still think it was the best thing to do. Never- 
theless, if you cannot get accustomed to it, if you are 
too unhappy, write and tell me, and I will come back 
and we will go and live at the Hutterie together. 
If necessary, I will resign, and work here for our 
living.” 

This was a great deal for the poor fellow to say, 
for he was wrapt up in his profession. Marguerite 
reassured him by saying that he was not to worry 
about her, as^she was prepared to begin her new 
life courageously and even joyfully, and that she 
would see to it that I did the same. 

The moment of parting had come, and Charles, 
realizing that he must cut short his farewells, mount- 
ed his horse, and started off at a brisk gait on the 
road to Angers. 

Our hearts swelled, and we felt very lonely as we 
watched him out of sight, but Marguerite, who was 
very resolute, soon had herself in hand, and was 
able to meet with a smile my aunt’s proposal that 
we take a walk over the place. It was about three 
in the afternoon. Mademoiselle Dumoulin put on 
her great straw hat, took with her a hunting-piece, 
in case we should come across a hare or a partridge, 
and started out to show us her little kingdom. Mar- 


22 


Brother and Sister. 


guerite compelled herself to be interested in the ex- 
pedition, thereby greatly pleasing the old lady. 

“We shall make something of you, little one,” 
she said. “You have not many ideas in your head 
as yet, but with patience you will improve.” 

Then she began to describe at length the method 
she pursued in cultivating her land. Here she had 
oats; yonder, hemp; in that field, cabbages; further 
on, wheat, and then cabbages again. 

“Remember well, child,” she said, “you can never 
have too many cabbages. What would we feed to 
the cattle when the hay crop failed as it did this 
year? Those stupid Chopins 1 never plant enough 
cabbages, and then they complain that their cattle 
are dying of hunger. Besides, they don’t manure 
their land. You have to fertilize; see, Marguerite?” 

Suddenly my aunt stopped in the middle of her 
dissertation. A fine hare came out of the bushes 
a few yards from us, and leisurely made his way 
down the foot-path that ran along the field in which 
we stood. Just then my aunt had her snuff-box in 
her hand. Coolly and without the least haste, she 
took a huge pinch of snuff, replaced the snuff-box 
in her pocket, and raised her gun. 

“See, there, children,” she said. “To-morrow's 
dinner is trying to get away from us. It is time to 
stop him.” 

The hare quickened his pace. She put the weapon 
to her shoulder, took aim for a secondhand fired. 


1 The Chopins were tenants of one of my aunt’s farms. 


My Aunt's Home. 


23 


The creature made a leap upward, then fell back 
with his feet in the air, sending forth pitiful cries 
and kicking convulsively. Catherine Dumoulin, 
cjuiet as ever, picked up the animal by his hind legs, 
and dealt him two sharp blows on the nape of the 
neck with the edge of her hand. That was the end 
of the hare, and I gazed in admiration at my aunt. 

“Now, you see, my boy, how it’s done,” said she 
laughingly. “All the men in our family love to hunt, 
and some of the women, too. I will teach you how 
to settle a hare. Yes, yes; you must learn to shoot. 
Perhaps the king may have need of your gun some 
day. If I had not had mine in ’93, I would not be 
here now, and more than one Blue would be here in 
my place doubtless.” 

So saying, my aunt put the hare in a bag which 
she carried over her shoulders. 

“It is time to go on,” said she. “As I was saying, 
Marguerite, it is necessary to fertilize. It is not in 
that direction that economy is to be practised. But 
beware of the fertilizers which come from Angers! 
There is manure and manure! Your mother never 
spoke to you on this subject, did she? That is why 
you are not more practical. However, all that will 
come in time.” 

“Yes, aunt.” “Certainly, aunt.” “Very true, 
aunt,” poor Marguerite would say, after each new 
proposition of the worthy woman. 

In this manner we visited the three farms, Chau- 
viniere, Dervalliere and the dairy farm Clouet, get- 


24 


Brother and Sister. 


ting back to Mesnil at supper time. I was delight- 
ed with the walk, but poor Marguerite found it ex- 
ceedingly long, in spite of her efforts to be cheerful. 
However, there was little danger of the lessons on 
agriculture and the ingenious observations on the 
subject of fertilizers being of frequent occurrence. 

“Now you are at home, children,” said my aunt, 
after supper. “Do just as you please. This is your 
room, Guitte,” she added, showing us into a large 
chamber on the second floor, from which we had 
a tolerably good view. The apartment had two win- 
dows, from one of which could be seen the roof of 
our dear Hutterie, and from the other the spire of 
the church at Saint-Laurent. In the distance, glist- 
ening like an emerald beneath the fires of the setting 
sun, the Gemme meandered in graceful curves, 
sweeping its fair waters toward the Loire, which 
appeared like an azure ribbon, bordering the far- 
away horizon. We could not tear our eyes from the 
loved landscape. At last our aunt roused us from 
our reverie. 

“This is for you, Paul/’ she said, opening a small 
room which communicated with my sister's. “And 
now, children, I leave you to yourselves. Your old 
aunt will not interfere with you. To-morrow the 
-rest of your belongings will be brought over from 
the Hutterie — your books and piano and all the other 
gimcracks. Then you may occupy yourselves as you 
please. I only ask one thing of you and that is that 
you be prompt at meals. Breakfast whenever you 


My Aunt's Home:. 


25 


like; dinner at twelve o’clock sharp, and supper 
at seven in the evening; bed-time according to each 
one’s fancy; on Sunday, high mass and vespers, 
as is only right, — and there you are! Good-night, 
dears, sleep well, and say a little prayer for your 
old aunt.” 

Upon this the kind creature betook herself 
to her night’s respose, although it was scarcely 
more than half-past seven. But then she had to 
be up and about by four o’clock in the morning 
to get men and beasts to work, herself setting the 
example of industry, with the energy of youth, 
despite her seventy-five years. 

The sight of our house in the distance had made 
me homesick and I began to cry. Marguerite, 
in order to distract my attention and amuse me, 
told me that evening the story of my aunt’s life, 
and as it is in my opinion remarkable in more ways 
than one, I will, if you like, rehearse for your 
benefit Marguerite’s recital. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE RISE AND DECLINE OE AUNT DUMOUUN. 


ATHERINE DUMOUUN, my respected 



aunt, was born in 1775, in the parish of Saint- 
Florent-le-Vieil, at the chateau of la Roche, where 
dwelt her father, steward of the estates of the 
Marquis de Valmont. The Lord of la Roche had 
the greatest confidence in his steward, who had 
administered his affairs for many years with scru- 
pulous fidelity. Madame Dumoulin, my aunt’s 
mother, had been much more highly educated 
than most people of her station in life, and was em- 
ployed as reader by the marchioness, also assist- 
ing her in the instruction of her two children, 
Claire and Rene. Monsieur and Madame Dumou- 
lin had likewise two children, a son and a daugh- 
ter, who were admitted to the companionship of the 
young Valmonts, and shared in their studies and 
their play. The four children were united by the 
closest affection, but this did not prevent the son 
and daughter of the steward from being ever mind- 
ful of the distance which separated them from the 
noble scions of the Valmonts. Catherine, in par- 
ticular, was devotedly attached to Mademoiselle 
Claire, who was her foster-sister. The two young 


26 


Rise: and Dexdine: of Aunt Dumouuin. 27 


girls were inseparable companions, and formed a 
most striking contrast in appearance and disposi- 
tion. Claire at eighteen was frail and delicate, very 
aristocratic in her bearing, and with a sort of native 
dignity which was not, however, at variance with 
her tender heart and gentle ways. The bailiff’s 
daughter was endowed with most astonishing mus- 
cular strength and vigor. Her plebeian countenance 
with its energetic and strongly marked features, her 
strong and emphatic voice, and the vivid, healthful 
color in her cheeks contrasted strangely with the 
distinguished carriage, harmonious speech and 
delicate profile of the young patrician. 

There was not a young man in all the country-side 
who could wrest the palm from Catherine in a 
foot-race or any other athletic exercise. By the 
firesides in the evening the tale was admiringly told 
of how Catherine had challenged Mademoiselle 
Claire to drive her ponies harnessed to an English 
phaeton, while she, Catherine, held back the carriage 
with one hand. In vain did Mademoiselle Claire, 
entering into the fun, whip up her ponies. Cathe- 
rine’s grasp of steel paralyzed all their efforts, and 
the vehicle did not advance by one revolution of the 
wheels. When the narrator had finished his story 
the company would cry out in chorus, “There’s a 
girl for you !” 

Paul, the steward’s son, and Monsieur Rene, then 
about twenty years old, were more alike, being of 
about the same height and build, both proficient in 


28 


Brother and Sister. 


field sports, both very quick-tempered, but easily 
pacified. 

The two families were living in happy tranquillity 
when the revolution burst forth. The Marquis and 
Rene went to join the ranks of the force from Ven- 
dee which was then marching upon Saumur. The 
faithful Dumoulin and his son accompanied them. 
The Valmont ladies remained at the chateau, in the 
keeping of Providence, with the wives of the peas- 
ants of the surrounding country, almost all of whom 
were fighting in Bonchamp’s army. 

When Catherine heard of the first successes of the 
Catholic and royal army, she could not restrain her 
excitement. 

“And I have to stay here!” she cried, shedding 
tears of vexation and anger. “I, who can hit a six- 
franc piece at two hundred paces, must remain here, 
while my father and brother, the Marquis and 
Monsieur Rene are braving death every day for our 
holy religion and the king!” 

Her mother, the marchioness, and even Claire, 
who usually had so much influence over her, could 
not reconcile her to her lot. 

“But what would become of us if you left?” said 
they, at a loss for arguments. “Some one must re- 
main to take care of us. What would we do, if the 
Blues were to come and carry us off?” 

“Just let them come and try it,” cried Catherine, 
with an angry gesture. “Let them come, if they 
dare, and carry you off to their Judas tribunal in 


Rise and Decline oe Aunt Dumoulin. 29 

Nantes! I swear, if they do, Catherine Dumoulin 
will go and free you!” 

Madame Dumoulin was in constant fear that she 
would do something rash, and every night she 
double-locked her in her room, in order to prevent 
her running away. She might have spared herself 
the pains. Catherine had smelt powder. One fine 
night she jumped from the window of her room, 
which was in the second story, climbed over the 
wall of the park, and throwing herself upon a farm 
horse, galloped off to join the royal army. She car- 
ried with her an excellent double-barreled gun and 
a pair of pistols. Past-master in the art of shooting, 
she was likely to lay more than one Blue low, be- 
fore she gave up her weapons. 

We need not live over again with her that epoch 
so glorious, and, alas ! at the same time so sad, of the 
wars in Vendee. Suffice it to say that Catherine 
fought bravely at Nantes, Torfou, Cholet, the cross- 
ing of the Loire and throughout the entire cam- 
paign of the Catholic army on the other side of the 
river. She was among the number of those intrepid 
soldiers who responded to the heroic appeal of Les- 
cure at Torfou, and by their irresistible onslaught 
changed defeat into victory. It was at Torfou, also, 
that she had the great happiness of saving the life 
of her father and the Marquis, who had fallen into 
the hands of some of Kleber’s grenadiers. She con- 
cealed herself with a few sharpshooters behind a 
thick hedge, whence her well-aimed fusilade threw 


30 


Brother and Sister. 


into alarm and confusion the small squad which was 
making off with the two prisoners. Then suddenly 
rushing out, followed by her companions, all shout- 
ing, “Long live the King ! Death to the Blues !” 
she forced the enemy to abandon their captives. 
Poor girl ! She only prolonged for a short time the 
lives that were so dear to her. A few weeks later 
the Marquis and Monsieur Dumoulin fell, mortally 
wounded in the bloody fight at Cholet, and expired 
upon the battlefield, while Paul and Monsieur Rene, 
covered with wounds, were taken prisoners, dragged 
to Nantes, and guillotined upon the Place du Bouf- 
fay. 

Catherine crossed the Loire with the royal army. 
She hoped that her mother and the Valmont ladies 
had been able to reach the coast and take refuge in 
England, as she had advised them to do. She herself 
remained faithful to the flag to the very last, and 
after the disaster at Savenay she succeeded in re- 
crossing to the left bank of the river and joining 
the army of Charette, who still held the Blues in 
check in lower Vendee. 

And here I must describe a notable achievement, 
in which Aunt Dumoulin played the chief part. 

About the middle of January, 1794, a few days 
after the defeat at Savenay, she suddenly learned 
from a prisoner who had escaped the massacres at 
Nantes that her mother, the Marquise de Valmont 
and her daughter Claire were confined there in a 
prison, from which they would be removed only to 
be cast into the Loire. 


Rise and Decline oe Aunt Dumouun. 31 


Her plans were soon made. She sought out 
three brave fellows of Saint-Florent who had been 
with her all during the campaign north of the Loire, 
and who had also recently joined the forces of 
Charette. 

“We must manage,” she said, “to get into Nan- 
tes, and rescue the Valmont ladies, and get them 
across the river. After that they can make their 
way to England/’ 

Catherine did not think it necessary to unfold her 
entire scheme to her companions. She simply ex- 
acted of them a promise of obedience; so the three 
men of Vendee swore on the crucifix that they would 
be faithful, and they prepared to follow their brave 
young leader. 

The first requisites were Republican uniforms, 
and it was not long before an opportunity of ob- 
taining them presented itself. Our friends had 
crossed the Loire at Trentemont, in the middle of the 
night, in a small boat barely large enough to hold four 
persons. A dozen times they were on the point of 
being swamped. At last, at about three o’clock in 
the morning, they reached the right bank of the 
river. Hardly had they gone ashore, when they 
came upon a small detachment of Republican gren- 
adiers, who were spending the night in the hut of 
some fishermen upon the river-bank. 

An armed sentry guarded the door. The four 
Vendeans drew near on tiptoe without arousing his 
attention. In an instant Catherine, having advanced 


32 Brother and Sister. 

to within two paces of where he stood, raised her 
gun, and brought it down with terrific force on the 
head of the soldier. The Blue dropped dead in his 
tracks, without uttering a sound. The Vendeans 
then rushed into the cabin, and dispatched with their 
poignards the five or six grenadiers whom they 
found sound asleep. Catherine had cautioned them 
not to fire, for fear of giving the alarm to the enemy. 
In a few moments the boys of Saint-Florent were 
disguised as grenadiers of the Republic, and my aunt 
had donned a costume, half-feminine, half military 
prepared for the occasion. A red skirt descended 
to her knees, a blue jacket composed the upper part 
of her dress, whilst around her waist she had wound 
the tri-color as a sash, thrusting therein a brace of 
pistols. The liberty cap completed her disguise. 

“Friends,” she said, laughingly, to her comrades, 
“allow me to present the avenger of Marat.” 

“Long live the King! Hurrah for Mamzelle 
Catherine!” shouted the enthusiastic Vendeans. 

“Softly, men,” said the young girl. “So far so 
good ; but we have now come to the hard part of the 
business. The next thing to be done is to muzzle 
Carrier for twenty-four hours.” 

“Bravo, Mamzelle Catherine. Forward, march! 
You can count on us,” cried the boys, who were 
afraid of nothing. 

There was no time to lose, for Catherine had 
heard the evening before that her mother and the 
Valmont ladies had been sentenced that very day, 


Rise and Dfcuinf of Aunt Dumouuin. 33 

and that within the next forty-eight hours they 
would be drowned in the river. 

The little band, after making a hasty meal, left 
the banks of the Loire and proceeded toward the 
headquarters of that ferocious officer of the conven- 
tion , 1 who, in the course of the previous three 
months, had put to death thousands of victims at 
Nantes. 

Catherine parted with her escort at the entrance 
to the official residence, and, walking boldly in, 
accosted the guard stationed on the ground floor. 

“I wish to see the Representative/’ she said to the 
soldiers, who were seated around a gaming table. 

“Citizen Carrier is not at home to-day, citizen,” 
replied a half-drunk corporal. “Not even to mem- 
bers of the fair sex. Come again to-morrow, if you 
like.” 

“Tell him,” said Catherine, unmoved, “That I 
come from Paris with instructions from the Com- 
mittee of Public Safety, and that I have no time to 
wait.” 

“The devil! How you talk, citizen,” said the 
soldier. “One would think you were in command 
here!” 


1 Many were shot every day at the quarries at Gigant, or 
met death on the scaffold of Bouffay, but this was not enough 
to satisfy the barbarity of this monster in human form. He had 
just invented a sort of boat with a movable bottom, by means 
of which a hundred victims at a time were suddenly let down 
into the waters of the Loire. This tyrant remained in power 
until the thirteenth of February (25 pluviose, year II). He was 
executed after the ninth thermidor. 


3 


34 


Brother and Sister. 


“I am enough in command to tell you,” rejoined 
Catherine, “that if you do not take me to Carrier 
in five minutes you are done for, and I would not 
give two farthings for your skin. I am the bearer 
of state papers, and if you hinder me in carrying 
out my orders, I swear by the ashes of the divine 
Marat you will answer for it.” 

Impressed by the determined tone and resolute 
air of the young woman, the soldier obeyed, and led 
the way to the presence of the redoubtable pro-con- 
sul. On reaching the second story, he opened a door 
leading into a dark corridor, down which he dis- 
appeared, after telling my aunt to await his return. 
Presently he came back. 

“You can go in,” he said, “but the Representative 
is very busy, and I warn you that he is in a very 
bad humor to-day, and for your own good you had 
best do nothing to irritate him.” 

So saying he showed Catherine down a narrow 
passage leading to Carrier’s sanctum. A huge iron 
door opened before them, and the soldier, hiding 
himself against the wall, made a sign to Catherine 
that she might enter. Hardly had she crossed the 
threshold when the door was hermetically closed by 
means of a spring, which could only be operated 
from the outside. My aunt realized that there was 
no escape in that direction, but this did not cause 
her any anxiety. She raised her eyes, and saw be- 
fore her a man of some forty years of age, seated 
behind what appeared to be an iron wall about fke 


Riss and Ducuink ot Aunt Dumoutin. 35 

feet high. This was Carrier. Only his head was 
visible, his shoulders and the rest of his body being 
hidden behind the massive barrier which came be- 
tween him and his visitors. The harsh, restless 
gaze of the pro-consul had in it the timidity of the 
wild animal. His small gray eyes opened and shut 
incessantly and rolled continually from side to side, 
while his matted, greasy locks fell to his shoulders 
and almost covered his forehead. One experienced 
at sight of him a sensation of mingled contempt, dis- 
gust, and terror. 

The tyrant who kept the people of Nantes in a 
state of abject terror, seemed himself to be a victim 
of continual fear. He seemed to look upon everyone 
who came into his presence as a possible assassin. 
At the least sign, the first word arousing his sus- 
picion, he could drop out of sight as if by magic 
At his right, within arm's reach, was a small door 
leading into an adjoining apartment. By going 
through this door he could forestall in the twinkling 
of an eye any attempt at violence, and at the same 
time shut his visitor in a trap. 

In two seconds my aunt had taken in the situa- 
tion and determined upon her plan of action. 

“What do you want, citizen?” said Carrier. “To 
what do I owe the honor of this visit?” 

“I have come to report to you certain traitors,” 
responded Catherine. “They want to bring the 
priests and kings back again.” And so saying she 
drew nearer to the partition. 


36 


Brother and Sister. 


“Not so near, citizen,” cried Carrier, bobbing 
down behind his breast-works. “Say what you have 
to say from where you are, and do not attempt to 
come nearer, otherwise I — ” 

He got no further, for Catherine, grasping the top 
of the partition, had vaulted lightly over it, pulled a 
pistol from her belt, and now held it at the head of 
the miserable wretch. 

“You make the least noise, and I will shoot,” said 
she. 

“What do you want,” stammered the tyrant, 
white with terror. “Don’t kill me ! In God’s name, 
have some pity on me !” 

“Don’t you dare to pronounce that Holy Name, 
you scoundrel,” said Catherine, with an expression 
of supreme contempt. “If you value your life, waste 
no words, but obey me on the spot.” 

“What must I do?” returned Carrier, trembling. 

“Where are the Marquise de Valmont and her 
daughter and Madame Dumoulin?” 

“I don’t know,” said Carrier. 

“You will have to tell, nevertheless, or in one 
second I will shoot, as sure as I am Catherine Du- 
moulin and the daughter of the woman you intend 
to murder.” 

“But if you fire, the guard will run up, and they 
will kill you.” 

“What is that to me, so I rid the earth of such 
a monster as you. Come, speak !” 

Carrier, trembling in every limb, opened a reg- 


Risf and Dfcuinf of Aunt Dumouun. 37 

ister which lay before him, and ran over the names 
in a long list which filled several pages. 

“Madame Dumoulin and the Valmonts are in the 
magazine/’ said he. 

“That is to say, in good French, that this even- 
ing they will be food for the fishes in the river?” 
queried Catherine. 

Carrier remained silent. The unfortunate wretch 
shook as if he had the ague. His whole body shud- 
dered convulsively, and he kept his eye on Catherine, 
with a beseeching look on his face. 

“You will sign an order to release immediately 
on demand of the avenger of Marat, Lucrece Aspasie 
Goujon, and her three companions, the aforesaid 
Valmont, her daughter Claire, and the woman Du- 
moulin,” said the young girl. 

“No !” said Carrier. 

“Ah! You say ‘No/ do you, scoundrel!” and 
Catherine placed the pistol against the temple of 
the member of the Convention. “You sign!” said 
she, “or in two seconds you will find out that there 
is a hell!” 

The wretched creature obeyed, terrified, wrote the 
order, and handed it to Catherine, who put it in her 
belt. 

“And now,” said she, “I give you fair warning. 
Don’t begin to plan changing these ladies from one 
prison to another, or having me arrested. I shall 
find it convenient to spend twenty-four hours in 
Nantes. There is no use trying to put obstacles in 


38 


Brother and Sister. 


my way, for if the worst comes to the worst, I have 
so arranged that you die before me. Do you under- 
stand ?” 

“Yes,” stammered Carrier, trembling like a 
whipped cur. 

“Good-day,” said Catherine, “and take that in the 
name of all the widows and orphans you have made,” 
and she spat in the face of the pro-consul. “And 
now you can ring. I am ready to go.” 

Carrier wiped his face, and rang the bell. The 
young girl was already on the other side of the iron 
barrier. The door opened, and my aunt went down 
and out into the street, where she rejoined her com- 
panions. 

“Now the hardest part of the work is done,” said 
she. “The wild beast is cowed, and for to-day he 
will not dare show his teeth .” 1 

Then, without undue haste, for she was sure the 
cowardice of the tyrant would prevent him from 
breaking his word, she began preparations for the 
second part of her enterprise. She went with her 

1 Cretineau Joly and several other historians of VendSe cite 
an instance analogous to the one we have just described. Ber- 
nard de Marigny, whose daring was proverbial, entered Nantes 
in disguise, and presented himself before Carrier. “I am 
Marigny, the ‘brigand’ general,” said he. “I find it necessary to 
be in Nantes for about eight hours, and I do not want to be 
captured. If you have me arrested I have arranged matters so 
that you will die before I do.” Carrier submitted to the threat, 
and allowed the Vend6an general to transact his business un- 
molested. 

Certain authors give this anecdote without vouching for its 
being genuine, but the well-known intrepidity of Marigny and the 
low, small traits of Carrier render it at least credible. 


Rise and Deceine oe Aunt Dumouein. 39 


companions and hired a good boat in which to convey 
the rescued ladies across the river that night. They 
then went to an inn, and took some food and a few 
hours’ rest. About five o’clock in the evening, at 
dusk, they betook themselves to the prison. It was 
the time for drowning the prisoners. A crowd of 
low, depraved people were awaiting the appearance 
of the condemned persons, prepared to enjoy the 
spectacle of their death-struggle. The deadly barges 
were all ready to receive their victims. The poor 
people condemned to this frightful death, women, 
children, old men, priests, nuns, captured soldiers, 
formed a long line extending from the vaults of the 
magazine to the river bank. Drunk with blood as 
much as with wine, the crowd flung themselves upon 
these unfortunate beings, cursing them, striking 
them and spitting on them. Some in a fury tore off 
their garments, telling them derisively that they 
could swim better without them. The victims, who 
were innocent of any crime, were bound together, 
two by two, regardless of their heart-rending cries 
for mercy. This hideous spectacle was enacted Over 
and over again before the stupefied inhabitants of 
Nantes. 

Our Vendeans had some trouble in singling from 
out the crowd of prisoners those of whom they were 
in search, but at last they found them, near the end 
of the sad procession, pale and so weak that they 
could scarcely move along, tightly bound, half- 
clothed and shivering in the icy wind. 


40 


Brother and Sister. 


“In the name of the law, I claim these three prison- 
ers, the so-called Valmont, her daughter and the 
woman Dumoulin,” cried Catherine in a tone of 
command, and pressing through the gaping crowd, 
she cut with her poignard the ropes which bound the 
captives. 

“Catherine, Catherine ! save us !” the poor women 
cried weakly. 

“Hush ! Be quiet, or we are lost !” whispered the 
girl quickly. 

“Ah — ha! So-called Marquise de Valmont, she 
continued, in a loud voice, “you will conspire with 
the enemies of the people, will you ? Before you die 
you must go before the bar of the Convention and 
divulge the names of your accomplices and the place 
where you have hidden the treasures of the nation. 
By order of the Committee of Public Safety, I, 
Lucrece Aspasie Goujon, and my faithful grenadiers 
will take you to Paris with your daughter and your 
maid, who are in the plot with you/’ And Catherine, 
by the light of a torch, showed the astonished guards 
the order of Carrier. 

“Very well, citizen, that is different,” said the 
chief of the prison guard. “Take away your prison- 
ers, and see that they do not escape. They are 
treacherous aristocrats, and will try to avoid the 
justice of the people.” 

“Be easy, citizens,” responded Catherine, with a 
loud laugh. “Before very long the government 
razor will destroy that notion for them.” 


Risk and Dkctink ok Aunt Dumouuin. 41 

My aunt, placing the prisoners in charge of her 
companions, gave the signal to depart, and the little 
company soon disappeared down the dark alleys 
which led to the water-side. 

Catherine knew of a friendly house where the 
fugitives could procure warm clothing and food, 
both of which they sorely needed. About midnight 
the whole party got into a boat moored to the quay 
called La Fosse, and soon the skiff, propelled by the 
strong arms of the boys of Saint-Florent, was rap- 
idly cleaving through the waters of the Loire, while 
Catherine, seated in the stern, directed its course. 

“Catherine, dear Catherine !” cried the poor 
women, lacking words in which to express their 
gratitude. 

“Dear mother, Madame, Mademoiselle, I am so 
very happy!” said Catherine. “The Good Lord ac- 
complished it. Without His aid I never could have 
succeeded,” and she related all the events of the 
day. 

The fugitives reached the left bank of the river 
in safety, and after walking the rest of the night, 
they arrived at the outposts of Charette. The Gen- 
eral received the Valmont ladies with great kind- 
ness, and provided them with the means of leaving 
France the following day. The Marchioness and 
her daughter, accompanied by Madame Dumoulin 
and Catherine, traveled to Noir montier, whence they 
sailed in a Danish brig for England. They remained 
there until the pacification. At that time the exiles 


42 


Brother and Sister. 


returned to France, and the Valmont ladies were so 
fortunate as to recover a large portion of their es- 
tates. The Marchioness rewarded liberally the three 
Vendeans who had aided in her rescue. Catherine, 
whose mother died in England, would accept noth- 
ing. 

“That sort of thing is done for love, and that is 
all one can take for it,” said she. Besides, she had 
some money of her own — enough to buy the prop- 
erty of Mesnil, and there she resolved to pass the 
remainder of her days. 

Marguerite added some other circumstances in my 
aunt’s career. 

Her hand was often sought in marriage, in spite 
of the superb scar which ran across her forehead 
and down her right cheek. This scar was a souvenir 
of an artistic clash from the sabre of a Republican 
dragoon, who was impaled a few seconds later by a 
thrust of Catherine’s bayonet. She refused all pro- 
posals. 

“My good friend,” she would say to each new 
aspirant, “do you want to tie a rope around your 
neck ? There has to be a king in every household. 
You know that. (The Good Lord never invented 
the Republic.) Very well! I can swear, that, if you 
were to marry me, you would not be the king of the 
combination. Besides, I am better suited to guide 
the plow than to rear children. If I had children I 
would break them trying to dress them. My name 
is not Catherine for nothing, and I would rather 


Riss and Decline; of Aunt Dumouuin. 43 

follow the example of my patron saint. Go and do 
your sighing for someone else!” 

“She kept her word and never married, and I 
really believe it was better for her possible husband 
that she did,” said Marguerite. 

So endecfmy sister’s narrative. 

I learned later that my aunt was faithful all her 
life to her religion and to her political convictions. 
“Dog of a Republican” was the worst name she 
could call her enemies, or rather those who excited 
her indignation, for she bore no ill-will to any living- 
soul. She was a sort of good-hearted scold, and 
would let fly every disagreeable epithet in her vo- 
cabulary, at the same time rendering some real 
kindness to the subject of her vituperations, either 
in the way of money or other assistance, for she was 
always ready to help her neighbor. The poor of the 
country-side knew well that they could rely on the 
charity of “Mamzelle Catherine,” and they often 
had recourse to it. 

“There,” she would say when dispensing her gifts 
of fruit, vegetables, linen or money to some needy 
creature, “take that, and don’t go and shout it from 
the house-tops, or I shall be tormented every day of 
God’s world ; and just give this to your wife. It will 
do her cough good. Tell her she is an idiot and 
you are no better. You’ll never be anything but a 
Republican dog, anyhow.” 

Aunt Dumoulin was up every morning by four 
o’clock, and after her morning devotions, over which 


44 


Brother and Sister. 


she did not linger, she rang the bell waking the ser- 
vants, and set them to work for the day. She did 
not spare herself in the matter of work, either. She 
was always doing kind things for her servants, but 
at the same time she was very harsh with them, and 
was forever grumbling about what they did or what 
they left undone. This had become a second nature 
to her. She worked in the fields until mid-day, ex- 
cept during the hunting season, when she took her 
gun, and started off at early dawn, two days in every 
week, accompanied by her faithful Ralph, to say 
good morning to the hares and partridges. The 
country was full of game at that time, and my aunt, 
being an excellent shot, would return from every 
expedition with a full bag. The table was plentifully 
supplied with venison, and during the autumn and 
winter we never had to buy meat. 

Every year about St. Michael’s day, which was 
the birthday of the Comte de Chambord, Catherine 
would prepare with much care a basket of game, 
which she would send to the prince at Frosdorf, 
with a note couched somewhat in the following 
terms : 

“Sire : — You have plenty of game, I know; but it is not 
French game. I send you some hares and partridges killed 
in Anjou. May your Majesty be pleased to accept them 
from 

Your faithful servant and subject, 

Catherine Dumoulin. 

Formerly soldier in the Catholic and Royal Army” 

As there were very few railroads in those days, 


Risk and Dkcitnk ok Aunt Dumouuin. 45 

I fancy that the game was rather high when it 
reached the residence of the Comte de Chambord. 
The intention of Catherine was, nevertheless, fully 
appreciated. Resides the usual letters of acknowl- 
edgment she received, in 1854, an autograph letter 
from Henry V., with a ring set with a diamond. 
That day Catherine put on her old white cockade, 
relic of her days in the army, and thus adorned ap- 
peared in the streets of Saint-Laurent, much to the 
wonder of the good wives of the town who came 
running to their doors “to see Mamzelle Catherine 
go by.” 

As long as my aunt lived, the prince’s gift reposed 
under a glass case in front of the dining-room clock. 
It was almost the sole object of interest to visitors 
to Mesnil. To be sure the proprietress herself was 
also something of a curiosity. 

She was a good Christian in intention, but, with- 
out realizing it, she was strongly tainted with 
Jansenism. She received the Sacraments only once 
a year, and yet she often debated with herself 
whether it would not be better to make her Easter 
only every three years. She never would avail her- 
self of the indult accorded the Bishop of Angers by 
the Holy Father remitting the Saturday abstinence, 
nor would she permit her household to do so. The 
year after the promulgation of the famous indult, 
the Bishop came to Saint-Laurent to administer Con- 
firmation, and he assembled the principal parishion- 
ers in the priest’s house, and inquired if there was 


46 


Brother and Sister. 


anything they would like to report to him. My aunt 
did not lose the opportunity of airing her griev- 
ance. 

“I have nothing to complain of, your lordship, 
except your changing the faith.” 

“How now!” exclaimed the prelate, laughingly. 
“Don’t you know, my good woman, that is a very 
serious accusation? If they hear of it in Rome, 
things will be rather uncomfortable for me.” 

“For the land’s sake, my lord!!” rejoined my 
aunt. “Haven’t we been told time and time again, 
that it was a sin to eat meat on Saturday? And 
now you tell us, you, that it is permitted. What 
are we to think ? At that rate you might as well do 
away with purgatory, too, while you are about it.” 

The Bishop laughed heartily, and tried to explain 
to the old lady the difference between dogma and 
discipline; but it was time lost. Aunt Dumoulin 
bowed her head and stuck to her own ideas. 

A few days after this an old fishmonger, who went 
from place to place among the towns and villages of 
Anjou selling herrings and sardines, came to Mesnil. 
He always stopped there, because Mademoiselle Du- 
moulin bought the fish for fastdays from him, and 
gave him a good drink into the bargain. 

“How is business, Daddy Hureau ?” said she. 

“Don’t speak of it, Mamzelle ! Now that the 
Bishop allows meat on Saturday, I don’t make any- 
thing at all.” Then he added sententiously, “The 
people all like it, but I am not so sure the Good Ford 
likes it!” 


Rise; and Ddcdine ot Aunt Dumoudin. 47 

“Quite true, Daddy Hureau, you’re right. No 
good will come of it, that’s certain.” 

We talked a long time together that evening, 
Marguerite and I, and at last I was very sleepy. 
Marguerite made me say my prayers, put me to bed 
and tucked me in, as mother used to do. I was in 
the land of dreams before she had finished picking 
up my clothes. 

It was late the next morning when she came to 
wake me. “Come, lazy bones!” she said, “get up 
quick, and come to see our new house.” 

I dressed myself at once, said my prayers and 
went down to the dining room, where Marguerite 
brought me some good hot milk. I was in the best 
of humors, which was something unusual when I 
first got up. 

“And now let’s - go and say good-morning to all 
the people and to the animals,” said my sister. 

We went first to the kitchen, where old Rose, my 
aunt’s cook, bloomed in all the freshness of her 
seventy-eight summers. The good woman had 
known us for a long time, and fairly worshiped 
“Mamzelle Marguerite.” My sister could do any- 
thing she pleased with her. After Marguerite, Rose 
loved better than anyone in the world, the old gray 
cat, Lulu, that slept all day long stretched out in 
front of the fire. The rats and mice might hold high 
carnival in the house, and Lulu would not trouble 
herself; and yet her mistress, who was so exacting 
with her subordinates, had nothing but kind words 
and petting for the tabby. To be sure, she made up 


48 


Brother and Sister. 


for it by her treatment of Lexis and Cillette, the 
stable boy and the girl who looked after the chick- 
ens, both of whom were under her directions. She 
scolded them from morning until night, which only 
resulted in making the poor things even more 
stupid than they already were by nature. Lexis and 
Cillette were brother and sister, belonging to the 
Chopins who were tenants of the Dervalliere farm. 
The good people had a numerous family, and had 
placed these two out to service with my aunt, who 
was very good to them. Lexis 1 was twenty years 
old, and with the aid of a man hired by the day, 
he took care of the kitchen garden and the few plots 
of ground which my aunt reserved for cultivation 
under her personal direction. He also had charge 
of Coco, the old farm horse, and drove to the neigh- 
boring market with the products of the poultry yard 
and the orchard. Poor Alexis was not remarkable 
for his intelligence any more than his sister Cillette 
was, and they had to be told the simplest things over 
and over again before they understood. 

Lexis was scandalized one day on seeing Lather 
Berteaux, the first assistant pastor of Saint-Laurent, 
trapping hares in the wood where the warren be- 
longing to my aunt was. 

“Tell me, Mistress ” 2 said he to Marguerite, is 

1 The abbreviation of Alexis, in the patois of Anjou. 

2 In the province of the West, the peasants, until within the 
past few years, always addressed the proprietors of the farm or 
leasehold and their children, even when the latter were still 
little, as “Master” or “Mistress.” The custom has died out, 
like so many others. Is the change for the better? We believe 
that respect and deference have suffered by it. 


Rise and Decline oe Aunt Dumoulin. 49 

it all right for a curate to set snares like that ? Fve 
a notion it's not nice for a priest.” 

“Why not?” said my sister. “There’s nothing 
wrong about it.” 

“Perhaps not, Mistress; but you’ve got learning, 
and you’d better look in your big books, that have 
everything in them. You will see then what they 
say about hares, and you can find out for sure 
whether the curate ought to catch them or not.” 

I could cite many little instances of the innocence 
of Lexis. We shall have occasion to refer to it 
again in the course of this story. 

Cillette , 1 his sister, was quite as unsophisticated. 
Every time that Marguerite passed on her way in or 
out of the house, though it might be twenty times 
a day, she would get up, stand as straight as a sol- 
dier on parade, and call out at the top of her voice, 
“Mistress is going out! Good-day, Mamzelle!” or 
“Mistress is coming in — Good-day, Mamzelle!” 
Marguerite had time and again told her that these 
repeated salutations were quite unnecessary, and 
that it was enough to say “Good-day” to people 
once — in the morning. The poor girl invariably 
dissolved in tears, so my sister ended by letting her 
do as she pleased. 

One day my aunt gave Cillette a box of rat poison, 
with orders to spread it on pieces of potato and lay 
these in the pantries and store-rooms and near the 

i Cillette, Cillon, Francillette, Francillon, are diminutives of 
Francois and Frangoise in many of the dialects of the West. 


4 


50 


Brother and Sister. 


fruit-bins. Terrified because she had heard it was 
poison, Cillette buried the “stuff,” as she® called it, 
and scattered carefully where she had been told a 
plentiful supply of inoffensive potato, over which 
the rats licked their chops. 

But let us go on. 

After paying our respects to all the people, we 
went to see the animals. There was Coco in his 
stable; the three fine cows — one black, one red, and 
one fawn-color — with their great languishing eyes 
and their moist, brown muzzles, quietly absorbing 
the great heap of cabbages put before them. I would 
not be satisfied until I had been lifted to the back of 
a little two-months-old calf, that was destined for 
the butcher. His departure cost me bitter tears. 
Then we stopped to pet brave Tom, a superb New- 
foundland, three feet high, with a magnificent 
woolly coat, that watched the house at night. He 
was chained up in the daytime. 

At last, after a visit to the poultry-yard, with its 
thirty great black chickens, pecking at their corn, 
and to the pond, with its tribe of noisy ducks, the 
rabbit-burrow, and, last of all, the humble sty, with 
its grunting tenant, we returned to the house for 
luncheon. 

“To-day we will take a holiday,” said Marguerite 
to me; “but to-morrow we must begin work in 
earnest.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


MARGUERITE. 

1— | OW can I describe all Marguerite was to me, 
■ * or express the feelings which stir my soul to its 
inmost recesses at the thought of that sister, who 
was my second mother, and who loved me to the 
point of sacrificing the fondest desires of her heart, 
even life itself, in my behalf? It is exactly thirty- 
eight years to-day since she departed this sad life for 
a better world, and yet, even after so long a time, my 
heart still swells and my eyes fill with tears when 
I think of that chosen soul, who was my guardian 
angel here below, and who willingly endured the 
most cruel martyrdom that she might bring back to 
the path of safety her erring brother. Ah, dearest 
sister, I should be the most ungrateful of men if I 
could ever forget your tender affection and watch- 
ful care! From the realms of glory, where you now 
dwell, as I confidently believe, cast a look of love 
and pity upon your poor brother, still toiling on in 
this vale of tears — upon that brother who cost you 
so dear in days gone by. Guide him along the last 
stretch of the road which leads to heaven, even as 
you steadied his first faltering steps. Thanks to you, 
the faith which I lost by my sins during those evil 


51 


52 


Brother and Sister. 


years when I wandered away from God, has 
again entered my soul, lively and pure as in those 
days of childhood when you first planted it there. 
But though my way is now lighted by the heavenly 
lamp, alas! I am very often unfaithful to the light, 
and that light, when I come to be judged, will be 
turned upon me, and will lay bare my sins. Do you, 
then, who are enjoying in Paradise that eternal 
youth which the flight of time cannot fade, support 
the poor old man who is approaching the end of his 
course ; help him to prepare by a good death for the 
life which has no end, as you prepared him once 
with such loving care for that mortal life which 
opened up before him full of mystery and beset with 
dangers. 

Here I am wrought up once more by that which 
is now long past and gone. Let us take up the 
thread of my narrative. 

Marguerite was entering upon her nineteenth year 
when we lost our parents. The prolonged ill-health 
of my mother, which forced her while still very 
young to take upon herself the direction of the 
household, the many deaths in our family, and that 
last terrible storm which had just burst over our 
heads, — all these causes combined to mature at an 
early age the rare mental and moral qualities of this 
gifted child. 

Her mind was quick and keen; she had a fund 
of common sense, and exquisite delicacy and tact, 
and her affection and capacity for self-sacrifice were 


Marguerite. 


53 


boundless. In addition to these natural good traits 
she had acquired the virtues which develop from 
solid and tender piety. She was patient and perse- 
vering, with the simple and open gayety of heart of 
a child and a modest grace which pervaded her 
whole person, and gave her an irresistible charm. 
Marguerite was, indeed, one of those chosen souls 
whom God leaves to bloom here on earth for a time, 
but whom He soon takes away, as if in haste to set 
them in the gardens of His Paradise. During her 
short sojourn here below, Marguerite exercised con- 
siderable influence on those about her. Undoubtedly 
her natural talents and advantages explain and 
justify to a certain degree the deep sympathy she 
inspired in those with whom she came in contact, 
but these qualities were trained upon a lively faith, 
sincere piety, and indefatigable charity, which made 
them meritorious and efficacious. 

Marguerite’s faith was part of her very being. 
The idea of sin, even in its lightest form, filled her 
with horror. One day when she was talking with 
the Comtesse de Saint-Julien, she allowed a some- 
what disparaging remark concerning a certain per- 
son to escape her. In an instant she grew quite 
pale. 

“Good gracious, what am I saying?” she cried. 
“I have given you scandal. I have done very 
wrong.” 

“Do not torment yourself about it, dear,” said the 
Countess. “At the most it is only a venial sin.” 


54 


Brother and Sister. 


“It may be only a venial sin, Madame,” said the 
good child, with tears in her eyes, “but it gives me 
mortal pain!” 

A little scene which transpired on another oc- 
casion, aptly illustrates how sensitive was her love 
for God and for her neighbor. As a rule, Marguer- 
ite avoided appearing in company, but on this oc- 
casion she had been obliged to make an exception 
and accept the Countess’ invitation. There were 
special reasons why it was impossible to refuse. It 
was a great day at Aulnaie, and the most distin- 
guished society of Angers had gathered there. The 
guests assembled in the great drawing-room at 
about four o’clock for tea. The hostess was called 
away for a time, and, during her absence, one of 
the ladies present, who bore one of the great names 
of France, did not scruple to introduce as a topic of 
conversation a scandal which had been going the 
rounds of the town. At first she spoke in a low tone 
with mysterious whispered asides to those nearest 
to her, but unconsciously she raised her voice as the 
circle of listeners widened. Soon the whole com- 
pany was in wTapt attention. The smile which 
passed from lip to lip, the questioning expression in 
the eyes of the curious, the glances cast this way and 
that for the purpose of emphasizing allusions al- 
ready perfectly transparent, — all the discreet stage 
business of calumny encouraged the narrator, who 
was keenly sensible of her triumph. Some were dis- 
tressed at seeing the conversation take such a trend, 


Marguerite:. 


55 


but not knowing what to do, they waited patiently 
for it to stop. Marguerite was worried to death. 
Her youth made it out of place for her to impose 
silence upon the malignant tongue which was busy- 
ing itself in wounding God’s honor and its neigh- 
bor’s reputation. She resolved, nevertheless, to put 
a stop to the scandalous proceeding, cost what it 
might, although she realized that she was not in 
conscience bound to take any steps in the matter. 
Just as the tale was becoming most racy, and the 
listeners were on the very tip-toe of expectancy and 
interest, she dropped the cup of tea which she held. 

“O dear!” she exclaimed in a tone of distress, 
“my new gown is utterly ruined.” 

The charm was broken. Everyone gathered 
around her, some to console her for her mishap, 
others to recommend infallible recipes for remov- 
ing the stain which extended all down the front of 
the waist. Meantime Madame de Saint-Julien reap- 
peared, and there was no danger of a renewal of the 
obnoxious subject. 

Marguerite soon after took her departure, and 
returned to Mesnil. After she left the room, old 
General B., quite touched, said : 

“That child just now did a very brave thing. It 
was not awkwardness on her part which spilled the 
tea. I saw the whole thing. She did it on purpose, 
and spoiled her new dress rather than let the con- 
versation proceed.” 

Every one looked at his neighbor and more than 


56 


Brother and Sister. 


one reddened in confusion. It was a very good les- 
son. I have been told that the following winter the 
conversation at social gatherings was more reserved 
than it had been, but whether the improvement was 
lasting or not, I do not know. 

The secret of my sister’s strength was her sincere 
and enlightened piety. She had been consecrated 
in infancy to the Immaculate Virgin, and, as her 
intelligence developed, her mother instilled in her 
a loving devotion to the glorious privilege of Mary. 
When Pius IX. solemnly defined the dogma of the 
Immaculate Conception, Marguerite’s devotion was 
wonderfully increased, and from that time she 
formed the habit of every morning consecrating to 
the Blessed Mother the day about to commence. 

This devotion naturally led to love of the Sacred 
Heart of Jesus, which soon became the very soul 
and centre of her life. She once wrote to a friend : 
“The Son of God came upon earth to suffer and to 
love. In heaven He could only love, but not suffer. 
It is the same generous acceptance of suffering 
which He longs to find in souls, especially in those 
whom Pie has favored with special graces.” 

Marguerite loved our Lord with all the strength 
of her heart, and if her cross was a very heavy one, 
it was because suffering is the food of love. She 
received Holy Communion every morning except 
Tuesday, when she was accustomed to go to con- 
fession. She prepared herself for the reception of 
the Blessed Sacrament by a half hour’s meditation, 


Marguerite. 


57 


which she made on her way to the church of Saint- 
Laurent. At night, before retiring, she also oc- 
cupied her thoughts for a time with the Divine 
Guest she was so soon to receive. 

Aunt Dumoulin, who was, as I have said, 
touched with Jansenism, could not understand her 
niece’s devotion. 

“Holy Communion every day!” she would often 
say, “Why, child, you must be a saint. Even the 
saints did not all do as much. We are not worthy 
to receive the Good Lord so often !” 

“If I waited until I were worthy,” replied Mar- 
guerite, smiling, “I would never go at all. I hope 
I am not unworthy, in the sense that I have not 
grave sin on my conscience, but J know very well 
that I do not merit so great a favor. I go so often, 
first, because my confessor advises me to, and, in 
the second place, because I know how much I need 
it. It is precisely so that I may become less un- 
worthy of God that I must approach nearer to Him. 
I feel my own poverty and weakness, and so I have 
recourse to Him who is sovereignly rich and sov- 
ereignly powerful. If you do not have to receive 
Holy Communion so often, it is because you are bet- 
ter than I am.” 

The old lady was silent, because she did not 
know what to say in reply ; but she renewed the at- 
tack from time to time. She even went so far on 
one occasion as to take to task her old friend the 
venerable pastor of Saint-Laurent, who had been 


58 


Brother and Sister. 


Marguerite’s confessor from childhood. ThQ old 
man listened smiling to what she had to say. 

“Is it my fault,” he once said in reply, “that our 
Lord loves Marguerite so much, and Marguerite 
loves our Lord so much?” 

“Pshaw !” returned my aunt. “In my time things 
were different. The truth of the matter is the faith 
is being changed. That’s certain. Well ! It’s none 
of my business. I will only have my own soul to 
account for, and that is quite enough, to be sure !” 

When Aunt Catherine had relieved her mind in 
this fashion she would change the subject, and the 
peace of the family circle would be in no way dis- 
turbed. 

Whoever loves God, loves his neighbor also, and 
Marguerite was the servant of anyone who might 
need her help. Her tastes, her pleasures, and her 
worldly interests were all sacrificed on the altar of 
charity. She loved and served the poor with a pa- 
tience and devotion which nothing could weary. 
“There are,” she wrote to Mademoiselle C., “two 
virtues which can never be carried to excess, and 
these are humility and charity. No matter how low 
a place we choose for ourselves, it can never be as 
low as we deserve. To realize this we need only 
contemplate for an instant the abasement of the Son 
of God. The same is true of charity, for since men 
are the sons and heirs of God, are we not account- 
able, in a certain sense, to them for all we owe to 
our Heavenly Lather? Do what we will, we shall 
never be quit of that debt.” 


Marguerite:. 


59 


The good child was ever ready to help her neigh- 
bors in their bodily or spiritual necessities, and as 
she was very skilful in binding up wounds and nurs- 
ing the sick, she was sent for not only from Saint- 
Laurent and the neighborhood, but often from great 
distances to perform these acts of charity. My 
aunt and Abbe Aubry hesitated for some time be- 
fore they would consent to her giving herself up 
to a work which was so arduous for a young girl 
of her age, but when Marguerite got to be twenty 
years old, she was so mature in mind and vigorous 
in health, and her attraction to this form of charity 
was so evidently a supernatural gift, that her spir- 
itual and temporal superiors were moved to allow 
her full freedom in the matter. 

She freely availed herself of the permission, 
Three or four times a week, she started off right 
after Mass, armed with her little medicine chest, to 
visit the sick. She took with her Tom, the superb 
Newfoundland whose acquaintance we have already 
made. The brave dog played his part of protector 
in all seriousness. Woe betide the reckless indi- 
vidual who should threaten to do his mistress harm. 
His account would have been settled in short order. 
One afternoon at dusk, Marguerite was on her 
way home from one of her visits, when, at a turn 
in the road, two unknown men attacked her and 
knocked her down. Not for long, however, for at 
her cry of terror Tom leaped upon her assailants 
with such fury that one of them loosed his hold of 


60 


Brother and Sister. 


his victim, and the other ran off as fast as his legs 
could carry him. Marguerite soon recovered from 
her fright, and called off the dog. It was high 
time. The man was gasping for breath and almost 
choked to death. 

Marguerite, rendering good for evil, hastily 
bound up the wounded man and took him with her 
to Mesnil. There she had him put to bed, and for 
three days she took care of him herself with great 
devotion. When he was able to leave, she gave him 
some money to help him on his way, and gently 
urged him to give up his evil ways and live an 
honest, Christian life. The poor fellow wept tears 
of gratitude and repentance. “Ah! Mademoiselle,” 
said he, kissing her hand and wetting it with his 
tears, “you are God’s own angel. I thought I had 
no heart left, but now it seems as if you had made 
me one.” 

After this adventure Marguerite scolded Tom for 
being so vicious. She even gave him several sound 
slaps on the head, a correction which he undoubtedly 
mistook for a caress. - I can see him now, submit- 
ting resignedly to his beating, gently licking mean- 
time the hand of his mistress while he looked up at 
. her contentedly with his great innocent yellow eyes 
as if to say : “Tap away, my little Marguerite, but if 
it were not for me where would you be now ? You 
need not be afraid. I am always on guard.” 

When the trip to be made was a long one, the 
peasants usually came after my sister in a wagon. 


Marguerite:. 


61 


They often drove ten or twelve miles. Aunt Du- 
moulin had once for all refused to allow Coco, our 
old horse, to be used for this purpose. 

“I need him on the farm” said she. “Besides, it 
is all very well for duchesses to ride in carriages, 
but as for the rest of us, the Good Lord has given 
us legs, and He intends that we should use them.” 

Madame de Saint-Julien had tried to persuade 
Marguerite to let her give her a light wagon and a 
good horse. 

“Obstinate child !” she wrote one day, “I shall die 
of anxiety if you keep up these everlasting expedi- 
tions. Suppose something dreadful should happen? 
You might catch some malignant disease, or be way- 
laid on the highway, and then what should I do? 
The shock would kill me. And how about Paul? 
Do take care of yourself, ungrateful girl, for the 
sake of those who love you, and stop going about 
the country alone. If there is no way of keeping 
you from your good works, at least you might take 
the horse and carriage that my husband and I would 
be so glad to give you.” 

Marguerite, however, was inflexible on the point 
in question. Nor was it the pride of the democrat — 
the worst pride of all — which made her refuse to re- 
ceive favors from the great lady. In taking this 
stand she thought only of preserving her freedom 
of action, and of avoiding the appearance of having 
interested motives. Later on we shall see how pru- 
dent and meritorious was her attitude. 


62 


Brother and Sister. 


In the spring of 1850, Charles and his bride 
came to make us a little visit on their wedding tour. 
He had just married the daughter of a rich manu- 
facturer of Lyons, Monsieur Robert, by name. 
They spent several days at the Hutterie, which, ac- 
cording to previous arrangement, belonged to 
Charles. Lucie, for this was the name of our young 
sister-in-law, was a lovely character, very gentle 
and kind-hearted, and very pious, and was delighted 
to make the acquaintance of Marguerite, for whom, 
from that time forward, she cherished the tenderest 
affection. Her own fortune was considerable, and 
her father gave her all the money she wanted, so, 
of her own accord, she asked her husband to trans- 
fer the family property to his sister — a request 
which my brother was very ready to grant. Mar- 
guerite, after some hesitation, ended in accepting 
their proposition on my account. It was decided 
that she should lay aside the modest revenues of 
the Hutterie to defray the future expenses of my 
education. Charles and Lucie left us at the end of 
a week, promising to return before long, a prospect 
to which I looked forward with delight, for Lucie 
had loaded me with presents, and I thought, with 
good reason, that the source of her liberality was 
not likely to be exhausted. Marguerite, fortu- 
nately, put a stop to all this, otherwise Lucie would 
certainly have spoiled me. At the time I would, 
without doubt, have enjoyed it, but later I under- 
stood that a wise move had been made in setting a 
limit to my new sister’s generosity. 


Marguerite). 


63 


“I am going to send you a present, too, before 
long,” Lucie said to Marguerite when she bade her 
good-by. A few days later the present arrived in 
the shape of a fine English phaeton and a beautiful 
little horse, who could go like the wind. Marguer- 
ite received gratefully from her sister that which she 
did not think it advisable to accept from an outsider, 
and she was thenceforth able to give free rein to 
her charitable impulses, and was also saved much 
fatigue and many inconveniences. 

I was not less delighted than Marguerite, for Fan- 
fan (as we called our little steed) was a handsome 
creature, as black as jet, very gentle, perfectly 
trained, with no tricks and yet full of vigor and fire. 
Besides, Marguerite, yielding to my entreaties, con- 
sented after a little hesitation, to my riding him, 
though I was then only eight years old. Lexis, the 
farm boy, was charged with looking after me when 
his duties permitted, and, moreover, my sister was 
somewhat reassured as to the probable falls of the 
horseman when she realized the small size of his 
mount. Thus it was that I was enabled, much to 
my satisfaction, to learn to ride and to make de- 
lightful expeditions into the surrounding country, 
which served greatly to improve my health. 

At first I used our little horse without any regard 
for moderation, being carried away by my love of 
all out-door amusements. But this did not accord 
at all with Marguerite’s ideas. She was too gentle 
and tender-hearted not to be considerate of even the 


64 


Brother and Sister. 


dumb animals. She would have had a perfect right 
to forbid my using Fanfan without her express per- 
mission, but she had in view not only the preserva- 
tion of the horse’s usefulness, but more especially 
the correction of a fault which, if allowed to develop 
in a character as ardent and passionate as mine, 
might easily have made me unfeeling and cruel . 1 

One day Marguerite returned from a long trip 
with Fan fan well tired out and covered with foam. 
Without regard to the exhausted condition of the 
poor horse, I jumped at once into the saddle and 
started off for a ride. Marguerite had gone up to 
her room, and saw me from the window. She 
came down directly and ordered Alexis to go and 
tell me to come back. I came tearing up the ave- 
nue at a gallop, proud of my progress in the eques- 
trian art and expecting to be complimented. Guitte’s 
face, however, was very grave. 

“Are you not ashamed,” she said, “to make a tired 
animal race like that ? I thought you had more feel- 
ing.” 

I was quite taken aback, but I was also vexed at 
being scolded in the presence of Lexis and Cillette, 
who were witnesses to the scene, and I answered 
in a somewhat impudent tone that Charles and 


1 Mme. X. had acquired, justly or unjustly, the reputation of 
being hard on her servants, and her maid said one day to 
Cillette: “Is your young lady cross?” “Cross!” cried the girl 
indignantly. “Whoever told you such a horrible thing as that? 
Why, our mistress never in all her life gave any one the least 
trouble. She couldn’t even say ‘no’ to a sheep!” 


Marguerite. 


65 


Lucie had given Fanfan to me as well as to her. 
Marguerite shrugged her shoulders. 

“You are only aggravating your fault,” said she. 
“At first it was only thoughtlessness, but now it is 
pride as well. Get down,” she added, sternly; and 
when I had obeyed, she continued : “Lexis, take the 
poor beast to the stable and look after him.” 

When the boy had taken Fanfan away, Marguer- 
ite pulled me down beside her and said, gently : “It 
was my duty to teach you this lesson, Paul dear, 
and you hurt me by taking it so badly.” 

But I was already choked up with tears, and put- 
ting my arms around Guitte’s neck, I asked her 
pardon. How could I have spoken so rudely and 
ungratefully, when I loved her so much ? I was al- 
ready forgiven. 

“And now that you are all right again,” she said, 
“you can understand better how wrong you were a 
moment ago in using the horse when he was in such 
a state. That is not making a proper use of crea- 
tures. The good Lord gives them to us for our 
necessities and also for our enjoyment, but we must 
make use of them in moderation, and that is not 
what you were doing a while ago in mounting that 
poor beast when he was already worn out by my 
long ride. It was not a sin, I know, but it was an 
unreasonable act; first, because you might have 
caused injury to ourselves by rendering the animal 
useless, and this would be the more serious because 
our means do not admit of our buying another 


66 


Brother and Sister. 


horse so easily — and you know how useful Fanfan 
is to me — but there is another and a better reason. 
If you get into the habit of being hard and cruel to 
animals simply for your own amusement, you will, 
little by little, increase your selfishness and your vio- 
lent desire of having your own way in everything, 
and you will soon end in being hard and unfeeling 
towards human beings, too, which would be a great 
misfortune. I would not have used the horse so 
hard myself to-day, if it had not been necessary. 
My object was the health, perhaps even the life, of 
a certain person. In such a case one must remember 
that the beasts are made for man, and it would 
then be ridiculous and even reprehensible to spare 
them.” 

I learned my lesson, and my sister was under no 
necessity of repeating it. I have always been 
grateful to her for having taught me to be merciful 
to animals. She added example to precept, and I 
have known her more than once to undertake a long 
trip on foot, in order to spare her tired horse. But 
on several occasions, when her services were de- 
manded by some one seriously ill and living at a 
distance, she did not hesitate to make the journey 
at top speed, urging poor Fanfan on relentlessly, al- 
though, as she said, “it made her heart bleed.” One 
day when there was question of bringing the con- 
solations of religion to a dying man whom she had 
just persuaded to see a priest, she started off in the 
phaeton at break-neck pace to fetch the pastor, who 


Marguerite. 


67 


lived more than twelve miles away, and made the 
distance going and coming in an hour and twenty- 
five minutes. She had the satisfaction of arriving 
in time and of seeing the sick man die in peace, 
reconciled to his God; but she had been obliged to 
press her horse so hard that he dropped as if shot, 
when the drive was over. The tears came to poor 
Marguerite’s eyes at the sight. “What a shame to 
have to strike the poor animal so!” she said, that 
evening. “It cost me a great deal to do it, but I 
hope it was pleasing in the sight of God, since it 
was to save a soul.” 

Thanks to our good care, Fanfan recovered, and 
at the end of a few weeks, more lively and spirited 
than ever, he resumed his labors, which, as a gen- 
eral rule, were light enough. 

If an epidemic was raging in the neighborhood, 
my sister was not satisfied with visiting the sick 
three or four times a week. She worked night and 
day in their service, hardly taking time for her 
meals. My aunt at first attempted to restrain her 
zeal, but she ended by yielding, overcome by the 
sight of so much devotion. In 1853, during the 
epidemic of typhoid fever which ravaged the town 
of Angers, she offered her services to the superior 
of the Sisters in charge of the town hospital, who 
was only too grateful for her assistance. For five 
weeks she rivaled in devotion and self-sacrifice the 
religious themselves, never faltering in the face of 
fatigue, or of the most revolting offices of the sick- 


68 


Brother and Sister. 


room. When the scourge had disappeared, and Mar- 
guerite went to take leave of the superior, the latter 
said to her : “My child, why not remain with us ? 
It certainly would seem to be your vocation, for I 
have never seen a more courageous and skilful sick- 
nurse.” “Perhaps the day may come when I can, 
Mother,” replied Marguerite, “but for the present, 
God has marked out my task. I must be father and 
mother to my brother. Paul is only ten years old, 
and I am the only one in the world to look after his 
soul. When that task is done, I will come, God 
willing, and live and die with you in the service of 
the unfortunate.” Old Rose never ceased her lamen- 
tations and pathetic appeals, in which she protested 
against Marguerite’s being at every one’s beck and 
call. Many a time did she turn away the peasants 
who came in quest of her young mistress’s assist- 
ance! But the dear girl generally arrived on the 
scene in time to set things straight, and never al- 
lowed the poor people to go away without promising 
soon to go and see them. 

They would almost always send for Marguerite 
when some one dangerously ill refused the consola- 
tions of religion. “We’ll have to get Mamzelle to 
make him hear reason,” the good country people 
would say. “An angel of God she is! And who 
could say no to her?” 

The pastors themselves often asked her to pre- 
pare the way for them, and persuade the sick to 
receive a visit from the priest. 


Marguerite. 


69 


Marguerite, after preparing herself by praying 
fervently, would set out without more ado to seek 
this interview upon which, in many cases, the salva- 
tion of a soul depended. In almost every instance 
her presence brought about the desired result, and 
the sick person, thanking her with all his heart, 
would ask her to prepare him for the reception of 
the Sacraments. She had such a simple, touching 
way of speaking of the happiness of heaven, the 
divine justice and the sufferings of our Lord, and 
God gave such power to her words that hardened 
sinners listening to her would come to hate their 
sins and die with the most edifying dispositions. 

Her gentle influence spread more and more, and 
people came from a great distance to see her, and 
asked either personally or by letter for advice, en- 
couragement or the assistance of her prayers; for 
though she possessed wonderful skill in nursing the 
sick and dressing wounds, God had bestowed upon 
her a gift even more precious than this ; that of con- 
soling afflicted souls by helping them to bear their 
crosses. Many a broken heart appealed to her, and 
never in vain. 

At about nine o’clock one winter evening during 
a period of very cold weather, a messenger arrived 
from Angers with a note for Marguerite. He came 
in an open vehicle. In a note a friend informed her 
that Madame N., a young woman of Angers who 
had been married but two months, had just lost her 
husband. He had died a few hours before as the 


70 


Brother and Sister. 


result of an accident while out hunting. Brought 
up in the midst of worldly surroundings, she was 
ignorant of even the fundamental truths of religion, 
and had never made her First Communion. For 
two or three weeks past, however, as a consequence 
of several interviews with Marguerite, brought 
about by a common friend, she had begun to think 
seriously of her duty towards God. She had often 
expressed great admiration and affection for my 
sister, and there was every reason to hope that under 
this favorable influence she would in time cor- 
respond to grace. But now this awful calamity, 
which struck her to the very heart, made her revolt 
against God, and at almost every instant she gave 
expression to the most horrible blasphemy. All 
the ground that had been gained seemed lost. 

“I do not wish to see a living soul,” she cried 
out, in a paroxysm of impious rage. “But yes — • 
there is one Being I wish to face and that is God, 
if there be a God. I long to appear before Him, so 
that I may curse Him and defy His anger. Leave 
me alone! Let me alone to die!” 

The unfortunate creature’s violence was so ex- 
cessive that it was feared she would take her own 
life. 

“There is one person whom you certainly would 
not refuse to see,” some one said to her during an 
interval of comparative quiet. 

“Whom do you mean ?” she answered listlessly. 

“Mademoiselle Leclere,” 


Marguerite. 


71 


“She . . . yes, perhaps,’’ she murmured as 

if talking to herself, then added regretfully: “But 
what is the use of mentioning her? She is not 
here.” 

The devoted friend had so much sympathy for 
her that she immediately sent off a messenger to 
Mesnil describing the situation to Marguerite, and 
asking her to return with the messenger if she pos- 
sibly could, and if not to send an answer. Marguer- 
ite took up her pen, and then, after a moment, “Bet- 
ter go at once,” said she, and she went down to the 
kitchen, where the messenger was warming his be- 
numbed members by the fire. 

“I will go back with you, and spend the night with 
the ladies,” she said. 

“On such a night as this!” cried old Rose, quite 
beside herself. “Go out in weather like this and in 
an open wagon, too! You shall not, Mamzelle, I 
forbid you ! And you, man,” she continued, turning 
to the messenger, “will please to go right off, and 
not let that child do any such foolish thing.” 

“At least wait till morning, Mamzelle,” said poor 
Cillette appealingly, “it is cold enough to freeze the 
wine in the bottom of the cellar.” 

“True enough,” mournfully added Lexis. 

Marguerite smiled. “Wait here for me,” she 
said decidedly. 

Returning to her room she wrapped herself up in 
a long cloak and covered her face with a sort of mask 
which in Anjou they call a “passe-montagne.” Two 


72 


Brother and Sister. 


minutes later she was speeding along the road to 
Angers at a round pace, leaving old Rose furious 
and her body-guard of two inconsolable. Poor Gil- 
lette was so grieved at the idea of her dear mistress 
being exposed to the bitter cold, that she would not 
go to bed, and wept all night, sitting by the fire. Old 
Rose kept her company. As for Lexis, either he was 
not so soft-hearted or he was more of a philosopher, 
for he soon went off to bed. 

Aunt Catherine had heard none of the commotion, 
for she had been asleep and snoring ever since eight 
o’clock. I had been aroused for an instant by the 
sound of carriage wheels on the gravel, but I had 
thought nothing of it, and two seconds later I was 
sound asleep. Happy age ! I could not do the same 
now! 

The good Lord blessed Marguerite’s act of char- 
ity. When she appeared at about midnight, Madame 
N. could hardly believe her eyes. But it was really 
Marguerite, and she had come all that distance, in 
an open vehicle, in the middle of the night, with the 
thermometer at zero, for the sole purpose of comfort- 
ing her in her affliction. She was very much touched. 

“You, Marguerite! In this terrible cold! You 
might have caught your death !” 

“I would be willing to do that over and over 
again,” replied my sister, gently. 

“You would? But why?” 

“For the good of your soul,” said my sister, look- 
ing up at her poor friend with ineffable love and 
tenderness. 


Marguerite;. 


73 


Madame N was conquered. She and Mar- 

guerite talked together the rest of the night, 
and when my sister took leave of her she was peace- 
ful and resigned. Her heart was won, and it was 
not long before her mind also assented. A few 

days later Madame N made her confession, and 

she and Marguerite, who had prepared her, received 
Holy Communion side by side. 

Women of all ages and of every rank and condition 
held my sister in affectionate esteem, and counted 
her friendship as a very special favor. She received 
at least ten or twelve letters every morning, and they 
were all answered by night. Yet Marguerite found 
time to devote two or three hours a day to teach- 
ing me. It is true that her mind was quick and pre- 
cise, and this enabled her to dispose of a great deal 
of work in a short time. She rose very early, and 
went to bed very late, and thus stole many an hour 
from her night’s rest. At her age a certain amount 
of sleep is very necessary, and yet for a long time her 
health continued to be vigorous and unimpaired. 
But the holy excesses of her charity in the end gradu- 
ally but surely broke down her physique and ex- 
hausted her vitality before her time. Alas! Why 
do I reproach my neighbor for abusing the willing- 
ness of that generous soul? It was I who killed 
her by my unfaithfulness, and I owe the salvation 
of my soul to the sacrifice of her life and of her 
earthly happiness. 

Marguerite disposed the hours of her day in such 


74 


Brother and Sister. 


a manner as to find time for all her numerous oc- 
cupations. She rose at five o’clock, winter and sum- 
mer, and soon after started for the church of Saint- 
Laurent, about a mile and a half away. She always 
walked and took old Tom as escort, and on the way 
she made her meditation in preparation for Holy 
Communion. Her dog, faithful to his charge, 
gravely waited for her at the door of the church, 
and gave lively evidence of his joy when she reap- 
peared. After the six o’clock Mass, which was said 
by Father Berteaux, the first assistant, she took a 
light breakfast at the house of a friend, and then 
set out again for Mesnil. By half-past seven she had 
reached her home again, and she then made ready 
to go to visit her sick people. Three days in the 
week — Monday, Wednesday and Friday — were de- 
voted to these visits, which usually consumed the 
entire morning. She nearly always walked when 
visiting those in the neighborhood; but if the way 
was long, she had the horse made ready and she then 
started about eight o’clock. Fanfan flew along at a 
great pace, proud and glad to carry his dear mis- 
tress. When her clients lived in places which were 
inaccessible to wagons, Marguerite would leave her 
light conveyance in a lane or at a siding in the road 
in the care of her Guardian Angel, and taking a little 
English saddle from the bottom of the wagon, would 
saddle Fanfan in no time, and pursue her way 
on horseback. She was light as a feather, and her 
horse, hardly feeling her weight, galloped freely and 


Marguerite;. 


75 


airily along the verdant foot-paths. If there was a 
hollow or a deep ravine to be crossed, where the way 
was too rough for riding, Marguerite would dis- 
mount and proceed on foot, the docile animal follow- 
ing her like a faithful dog, and never needing a touch 
of whip or rein to make him obey. After making 
her visit she would return in the same manner to 
the place where she had left the phaeton; and the 
Guardian Angel must have watched well, for she 
always found it safe. Unless something unfore- 
seen occurred, the stroke of noon always found her 
at Mesnil once more, for Aunt Dumoulin insisted 
on promptness. 

When Marguerite made her charitable rounds 
alone, I went with my aunt out hunting, or to visit 
the farm, according to the time of year, so I was 
never left to myself in the morning. 

The days my sister remained at home (that is to 
say, generally speaking, on Tuesdays, Thursdays 
and Saturdays), she gave herself up to her studies, 
of which she was passionately fond. She read with 
keen enjoyment our great classic writers and the 
best among the moderns. She knew Latin well 
enough to read works in that language with ease, 
she spoke German and English fluently, and had 
an extensive knowledge of history. In order to 
study more intelligently Catholic ethics and dogma, 
she had made herself acquainted with the elements 
of scholastic philosophy. She had an unusually 
bright mind, which, served well by her determined 


76 


Brother and Sister. 


will, infallible memory and wonderful facility for 
assimilation, enabled her to make very rapid progress 
in a short space of time and in studies which were as 
varied as they were serious. She reserved to herself 
only two hours three times a week (from eight to 
ten in the morning) for her particular work, and 
even then she had one eye upon my school-boy tasks, 
which I accomplished after a fashion at her side. 
At ten o’clock we went for a little walk in the neigh- 
borhood. Marguerite moved along, quiet and col- 
lected, a pious book or her beads in her hand, while 
I on Fanfan’s back cut up all sorts of capers around 
her. At about eleven o’clock we went in again, and I 
sat down at the piano to practise. Marguerite was 
a very good mpsician herself, and had undertaken to 
instill in me her taste and talent for music, but she 
only half succeeded. Out-of-door sports were much 
more to my taste, and I would have given all the 
pianos in the world for a saddle-horse, a hunting 
dog and a gun. Until Charles’ marriage my sister 
had only had at her disposal an old worn-out harpsi- 
chord which had belonged to my mother. The 
poor child, who was a real artist, had, as I afterwards 
learned, suffered much on account of the inade- 
quacy of her instrument ; but the money she was able 
to save was far too valuable for her even to think of 
spending it on herself. She intended to use it, as I 
think I have said, for my education and the necessi- 
ties of her dear poor people. The good Lord re- 
warded her self-denial. On the occasion of her first 


Marguerite. 


77 


visit to us when she was on her wedding-trip, Lucie, 
Charles’ wife, who also played very well, had lis- 
tened with admiration to the performance of her 
sister-in-law. 

“How can you, my dear girl,” she said to her one 
day, “with talent such as yours, put up with such an 
old tin-pan as that?” 

“Oh !” replied Marguerite, “it is quite good 
enough for me.” 

Lucie did not insist, but I could see very well that 
she had some scheme in her mind. A few days after 
the arrival of Fanfan, an enormous crate, packed 
with every imaginable precaution, made its appear- 
ance. It was the second volume of our wedding 
presents. We had to send for the cabinet-maker 
from Saint-Laurent to come and open the mysteri- 
ous case, which disclosed before the dazzled eyes of 
the inhabitants of Mesnil, a magnificent Erard 
Grand. Marguerite, flushed with pleasure, made no 
attempt to hide her satisfaction. She had the piano 
put in her room, which was very large, and that very 
evening Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin and Mendels- 
sohn sounded as they never had before. The “tin- 
pan” was reserved for my practising, and verily the 
instrument was worthy of the performer. 

But to return to the ordering of our days. After 
dinner and a short recreation, Marguerite gathered 
together about twelve of the children of the neigh- 
borhood whom she was preparing for their first Holy 
Communion. This catechism class, which met three 


78 


Brother and Sister. 


times a week, lasted two hours. I was always pres- 
ent as well as Lexis and Cillette, whose religious in- 
structions had been very much neglected. Margue- 
rite put her whole heart in this work, and went 
about it as if were the most important business in the 
world, and in this I believe she was not altogether 
wrong. She excelled in holding the attention of her 
young hearers, ordinarily so restless and trifling, by 
pointed questions, short and simple explanations, apt 
and striking illustrations which were easily remem- 
bered. She taught the children their prayers and 
how to examine their consciences, and spoke to them 
of sin and its horror and of the severity with which 
God punished it. There were some among them 
who were naturally apathetic and dull, and she often 
had the mortification of receiving hopelessly stupid 
answers to her questions. Any ordinary amount of 
patience would soon have been exhausted, but she 
returned to the attack without permitting herself 
to be discouraged, and in the end overcame both 
stupidity and lack of attention. Many a time have 
I seen her after supper take aside Lexis and Cillette, 
our two young servants, who were good-hearted, I 
must admit, but almost inconceivably stupid. It 
took a long time to get them to learn even that 
which their limited understanding permitted them 
to grasp, but Marguerite succeeded in getting into 
their heads the absolutely essential truths, and at 
last the poor things could receive Holy Communion, 
from which they had been barred on account of their 
extreme ignorance. 


Marguerite:. 


79 


On the days when she did not have catechism, my 
sister was occupied with her sewing or embroidery 
until half-past two. As she had no maid she kept 
her own clothes and mine in order, and it may be 
imagined that I gave her some work to do! The 
poor girl had often to sit up late mending the rents 
in my clothes which would result from my expedi- 
tions into the woods. 

At half-past two I began my studies every day, 
and these also Marguerite superintended. 1 She 
taught me until I was thirteen years old, and could 
have done so much longer, had it not been that about 
that time I became very hard to govern. Although 
I loved my sister dearly, I would not submit without 
a struggle to the authority of a woman. I argued, 
and refused to obey, and often there were very lively 
scenes. I always asked her pardon afterwards, 
with all my heart, when I had quieted down, but the 
relapses were altogether too frequent. A change of 
air became imperative. Then, too, Marguerite real- 
ized that except under very unusual circumstances 
the education of a boy should be conducted by men. 
And so in the beginning of October, 1854, 1 was sent 
to college to begin with the third class. I was at that 
time thirteen years old, — but we have not come to 
that quite yet. 

At four o’clock lessons were over, and I ran out 
joyfully to work in my little garden until the supper 

1 Before beginning we always said a prayer before the picture 
of father and mother, and asked them to bless us. 


80 


Brother and Sister. 


bell rang. My aunt had generously given up to me 
quite a space in her vegetable garden. Of this plot 
I was absolute master, and the Lord only knows 
what childish experiments I tried there ! 

During this time Marguerite walked to church to 
make her daily visit to the Blessed Sacrament. She 
remained there half an hour and on her return she 
practised on the piano until supper. 

After that we had a short recreation, and then I 
said my prayers, and when I was in bed and sound 
asleep, which as a general thing was before very 
long, Marguerite went back to her room to attend 
to her correspondence and her own devotions. It 
was not until half-past ten that she sought her 
night’s repose. 

This was the routine of the week. We spent al- 
most the whole of Sunday at Saint-Laurent, taking 
our breakfast there with friends. Between High 
Mass and Vespers, Marguerite called a meeting of 
the Children of Mary of the parish. Year after year 
they elected her president unanimously, except, of 
course, for one vote. She gave them a short instruc- 
tion on the love and honor due to their Blessed 
Mother and urged them faithfully and generously 
to discharge the duties of their state. On the eves 
of the great feasts they met in the sacristy for the 
purpose of preparing the decorations of the altar. 
For a whole week before Corpus Christi they would 
be busy from morning until night decorating the 
“calvaries” erected along the highways of the parish. 


Marguerite). 


81 


While they were thus occupied with the visible ac- 
cessories of worship, Marguerite lost no opportunity 
of speaking with them about God, and of helping 
them to prepare to receive the Holy Eucharist. 

All these young girls were devoted to their presb 
dent, and not one of them would decide a question 
of importance without first asking her advice and the 
assistance of her prayers. Marguerite used this in- 
fluence to counteract the faults and vices of the 
young people of the district. She managed to in- 
spire in those about her such a horror of sin and such 
love of the angelic virtue that in the course of a few 
months, the dances and gatherings of the free and 
boisterous sort, and, in fact, all other dangerous 
amusements had quite disappeared from the parish. 
The improvement was so marked that it almost 
seemed miraculous, and the pastor and his assistants 
thanked God for it, and did not hesitate to say to 
people that Mademoiselle Leclere was the visible 
angel of Saint-Laurent. 

The general affection and respect in which she was 
held was strikingly manifested during the winter of 
1854. Marguerite took cold as a result of visiting a 
sick person, who lived at a great distance from Mes- 
nil. She went out of a very warm room into the 
open air, and she was chilled through when she got 
into the phaeton again. By the time she got home 
an hour later, she was in a raging fever and had a 
pain in her right side. Next day our good doctor 
pronounced it pneumonia, and almost immediately 
the disease assumed a very alarming character. 


82 


Brother and Sister. 


It would be impossible to describe the anxiety of 
the parish and all the surrounding country at this 
time. People came eighteen and twenty miles to ask 
about Marguerite. The Countess de Saint- Julien 
sent a servant every morning and evening to inquire, 
and came every day to acquaint herself “de visu” of 
the condition of her dear Marguerite. In every 
household prayers were said, asking God to pre- 
serve the “saint,” and many people made a pilgrim- 
age to the sanctuary of Our Lady of Good Help at 
Nantes, to obtain the cure of the “good young lady.” 
The young girls of Saint-Laurent got permission 
from the pastor to pray day and night before the 
Blessed Sacrament until Marguerite should be pro- 
nounced out of danger. A number of others did the 
same, so there was always a crowd in the church. 
But most pathetic of all was the grief of our good- 
hearted domestics. Old Rose sobbed from morning 
until night, repeating to every one who came near 
her that she would not live without her little Mar- 
guerite. Lexis- and Cillette were in consternation ; 
and no wonder, for Marguerite was so good to them ! 
Poor Cillette in particular was pitiful to behold. At 
the most dangerous stage of my sister’s illness, she 
promised the good Lord in simple faith and courage 
that she would not taste a bit of food until her dear 
mistress should be cured. She kept her vow, and 
went four days without eating or drinking. We only 
learned afterwards, through a slip on the part of 
Lexis, of the heroic resolution of his sister. 


Marguerite:. 


83 




My aunt, who loved us like a mother, although her 
affection was hidden under a rather gruff exterior, 
was a marvel of efficiency and devotion. She re- 
fused to send for a Sister of Charity, as the doctor 
suggested, and, in spite of her old age, she tended 
my sister herself, day and night, during the entire 
course of her illness. 

“She is a real Marguerite, that’s sure,” said the 
poor old lady to Abbe Aubry, and a Vendean, too! 
I know the good Lord would like to have her in 
Paradise, but, all the same, we want her here, too, at 
least until we die ourselves ; don’t we, Father ? And 
we’ll just work so hard that the good Lord will 
change His mind.” 

The good priest smiled, and wept, and prayed 
with all his heart, for he loved Marguerite with all 
the affection of a father. Had he not baptized her, 
given her her First Communion, and been her direc- 
tor from her childhood? Then, too, he realized 
what a loss the death of this dear child would be 
to his parish. 

“If I were only at liberty to speak,” he said to us 
one day, when our anxiety was greatest, “if I might 
tell you of what goes on in that dear soul and brave 
heart which I know so well — but it is God’s secret; 
we shall know it all some day, and praise Him for it 
in eternity.” 

Marguerite prepared for death with perfect resig- 
nation and calmness. She had Charles and Lucie 
notified to come at once, if they wished to see her 


84 


Brother and Sister. 


alive, and when they arrived she confided me to 
their care, begging them to adopt me as their son, 
which they willingly promised to do. She then 
nerved herself to try and quiet the violence of my 
grief, and urged me to prepare myself well for my 
First Communion, which I was to make a few months 
later. She succeeded in calming me, and after that, 
kept her thoughts fixed on God, before whom, as she 
believed, she was soon to appear. 

She asked that the doors of her room be opened 
wide and every one be admitted who was on the place 
at the time. She then asked pardon for all the evil 
she had done and the good she had omitted, 
and begged them to pray for her and help her to 
prepare for God’s judgment. All present were in 
tears. After this Marguerite, with a lively faith, re- 
ceived Holy Viaticum and Extreme Unction, and 
then she bade everyone farewell. 

Hardly were the ceremonies at an end, when the 
sick girl fell into a deep sleep which lasted all the 
afternoon and through the night. When she awoke, 
she declared that she was well, and the doctor, ar- 
riving at that moment, found, to his great satisfac- 
tion, that the affected lung was entirely healed. 

And so Marguerite was given back to us, and her 
cure was really miraculous, for from that very day 
all the symptoms of her illness disappeared. She got 
up, took some food, and went on foot to Saint-Laur- 
ent to give thanks to our Lord for having given 
back to her again the robust health which she had 
enjoyed up to that time. 


Marguerite. 


85 


There was a day of general rejoicing when it be- 
came known that the “young lady of Mesnil” was 
well again. We had to rescue her by force from all 
these good people, who would have quite over- 
whelmed her with their joyful demonstrations. 

In the midst of this unanimous chorus of praise 
and fond admiration, my sister remained ever insig- 
nificant and despised in her own eyes, and I learned 
later that God preserved the tender flower of her 
humility by interior trials from which she was never 
more to be relieved. I will revert to this in time. 

Marguerite looked upon my bringing up as her 
first duty. She was untiring in her efforts to give me 
a broad and solid education and to furnish my mind 
by degrees with a fund of varied and useful knowl- 
edge ; but above all she strove to develop my under- 
standing and to confirm my will in reasonable habits, 
and especially to plant in my heart an active and 
lively piety, to accomplish which last the generosity 
and constancy of the will are necessary. She knew 
well how, with God’s help, to make of me a man of 
fine feeling and a true Christian. 

At my lessons, during our walks, or in those long 
talks when I confidingly poured all the thoughts and 
imaginings of my childish heart into her willing ears, 
she seized upon every opportunity of teaching me to 
know God, the Creator and Ruler of all things, and 
also to fear Him and to love Him. From my earliest 
years she had instructed me in the fundamental 
truths of religion, the smaller catechism, Bible his- 


86 


Brother and Sister. 


tory, and, as I grew older, the history of the Church. 
She showed me the power and goodness of God as 
revealed in the material universe, and still more in 
that hidden world, the soul, and she accustomed 
me to look upon mortal sin as the great evil, because 
it outrages the Divine Majesty, and inflicts death 
upon the soul, as incalculable woe, as the supreme act 
of madness, as a deplorable state from which one 
must extricate himself at any cost, if he be so un- 
happy as to fall therein. 

Marguerite sought to arouse in me admiration for 
all that is noble and generous, and, on the other hand, 
contempt for what is low, for lying, hypocrisy, selfish 
or interested motives; contempt for riches and the 
good things of this world, which attach the soul to 
earth with such strong bonds ; contempt for the opin- 
ion of the world, and love of duty — in short, the prin- 
ciples of Christian education epitomized in that an- 
cient device of our forefathers : “Do what you ought, 
come what may/’ 1 

Alas ! I did not profit by these precious lessons, 
and while she was here on earth, my poor Marguer- 
ite, during my young manhood, saw with sorrow 
thorns and tares spring up and flourish abundantly 
in the field cultivated with such loving care. May 
she from above behold at last, in the ground so long 
ungrateful and sterile, the growth of that late-bloom- 
ing flower called repentance, a poor blossom without 
brightness or beauty in the eyes of the world, but 


1 “Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra.” 


Marguerite:. 


87 


pleasing, nevertheless, in God’s sight. “There shall 
be joy in heaven,” says the Gospel, “upon one sinner 
that doth penance, more than upon ninety-nine just 
that need not penance.” 

There are some well-known lines of Paul Rey- 
nier : 

“La plus pure des fleurs qui croissent dans nos fanges, 
C’est lui (le repentir) ; mais l’innocence est la vertu des 
anges. 

La fleur qui ne germe qu’au ciel .” 1 

These verses remind me of part of a simple old 
song which I learned in my childhood: 

Au beau sejour de Paradis 
Le bon Jesus, notre doux sire, 

Parmi les roses et les lis 
Sourit au perfum de la myrrhe . 2 

It is very comforting for poor sinners ! 

Marguerite also began very early to teach me the 
history of France, and inspired in me a deep love of 
my country. She showed me how the Pland of God 
led our land in her glorious career, and made her the 
defender of the Church, the terror of tyrants and the 
refuge of the oppressed. When the world lent itself 
to an act of infamy, the sword of France leapt flam- 

1 Paul Reynier, “Innocence et Repentir.” 

The purest of flowers in this earthly soil grown 
Is repentance: innocence blooms in heaven alone, 

’Tis the virtue of angels above. 

2 Heaven is a garden wondrous fair, 

Where lilies and where roses bloom. 

Our gentle Saviour, walking there, 

Smiles at the bitter myrrh’s perfume. 


88 


Brother and Sister. 


ing from its sheath, and French blood was gladly 
and proudly shed in the vindication of justice. 
“France will avenge us!” oppressed peoples would 
cry, and they looked to us for aid. 

But to-day, what a contrast! We stand by and 
watch unmoved the death agony of a generous peo- 
ple, devoured by a nation which covets the precious 
metals and diamonds of its mountains. This people 
is of our own flesh and blood, and calls loudly upon 
us for aid. And France sleeps! She sleeps supinely, 
and “felons” prevent her from being roused, in order 
that the civilized robbers may accomplish their ends 
unmolested. How long, O God! Shall we see the 
great nation awake once more? 

But we are away back in 1852, and as yet I am 
a man only nine years old. 

If Marguerite was quite satisfied with my conduct, 
she took me with her when she went to visit the sick, 
providing there was no danger of my being ex- 
posed to some contagious disease. I was still alto- 
gether a child, and it took so little to make me 
happy ! 

For me there was nothing so enjoyable as these 
little excursions; and Marguerite liked very much 
to take me with her, both as a reward and also> as a 
means of accustoming me to being with the poor and 
to the practice of charity. She often found occasion 
when I accompanied her in these drives to follow up 
her task of developing the powers of my mind and 
heart. 


Marguerite. 


89 


Once a month during* the warm weather, the 
recreation would last all day. Then there would be 
no visits, but the whole time would be given up to 
me, and Marguerite would exercise her ingenuity 
in making me happy. Long before I looked forward 
to those days with delight, first, because for me my 
sister and the pleasure of being with her represented 
the very acme of my desires. And then our outings 
were so enjoyable ! On these days Marguerite would 
have the horse and phaeton brought around as soon 
as she returned from Mass. Old Rose would pack 
the bottom of the wagon with her choicest provisions, 
— a fine roast chicken, a sealed jar of cream, some 
luscious peaches and delicious little cakes which she 
had baked with special care. She did not forget to 
include a good bag of oats for Fanfan and a dinner 
for brave Tom, who was always of the party. 

We all four set off in high spirits, Tom barking, 
Fanfan frisky, I myself shouting and singing and 
Marguerite laughing. I shall never forget those 
times. Fanfan went like a deer, with such fire and 
vigor at a pace of fifteen miles an hour. When he 
was not urged — and he never was except in ex- 
traordinary cases — he could go at that rate for a long 
time without showing the slightest sign of fatigue or 
turning a hair. It is true that our vehicle was ex- 
tremely light, and Marguerite and I added very little 
to its weight. The heaviest burden that Fanfan had 
to draw was undoubtedly old Tom, who, after fol- 
lowing for a few miles would come up with a be- 


90 


Brother and Sister. 


seeching look which meant that he wanted a lift. 
“Jump, Tom !” He did not wait to be told twice, but 
leaped in without more ado, and soberly laid himself 
down at our feet. 

We stopped once in a while to breathe our valiant 
little steed and admire at leisure the beautiful coun- 
try through which we were passing. About noon 
we looked about for a grassy meadow near a pretty 
stream where there was pleasant shade, and there we 
alighted and prepared for our luncheon. Marguerite 
laid the cloth upon a fresh green carpet of moss, while 
I unhitched Fanfan, who proceeded to make a plenti- 
ful meal of the flower-strewn grass. He never was 
tied, for we knew he would run up at the first call, his 
mane floating, his eye on fire, his nostrils distended 
in the wind. It was a pleasure to see him, so spirited, 
so vigorous and, at the same time, so gentle and 
tractable. As for Tom, after playing for a few min- 
utes with his friend Fanfan, by way, I suppose, of 
thanking him for his ride, he would come and sit at 
our feet, and gravely munch the chicken bones which 
we threw him. After luncheon, while I slept on the 
turf in the shade, Marguerite said her beads and 
many other prayers. When I awoke we talked to- 
gether for a good portion of the afternoon. She 
spoke to me of God, of His power and goodness, so 
wonderfully shown forth in this our fair land of An- 
jou. She could, without wearying me, direct my 
thoughts to infinite perfection, the inexhaustible 
source of all earthly beauty, which reflected for our 


Marguerite. 


91 


eyes increate intelligence, as the stream reminds us 
of its source, or the sunbeam of the luminous orb 
whence it emanates. 

I asked her innocently one day, whether Anjou 
were not the most beautiful country in the world. 
“For us it is,” she said, smiling, and she repeated 
the well-known sonnet of Joachim de Bellay, who, 
in the midst of the magnificence of Rome, poetically 
sighed for his native land. These are, I believe, the 
first verses I ever learned by heart, and it always 
gives me pleasure to recall them. 

“Plus me plaist le sejour qu’on bati mes ayeulx 
Que des palais romains, le front audacieux; 

Plus que le marbre dur me plaist l’ardoise fine; 

“Plus mon Loyre gaulois que le Tybre latin, 

Plus mon petit Lyre que le mont Palatin 
Et plus que l’air marin la doulceur Angevine .” 1 

About four o’clock Marguerite gave the signal for 
departure. At our call Fanfan came up ready to be 
harnessed. I took the good oats from the bottom of 
the wagon, and he munched them with his strong 
teeth, finding in them new strength. Then we got 
into the phaeton and started for home at the same 
lively pace as in the morning. We reached Mesnil 
again at about seven o’clock. 

1 “Within the home my fathers reared to live 
All Rome’s pretentious palaces I’d give, 

Their marble for our slate so fine and blue. 

“To my French Loire the Latin Tiber’s tame, 

Lyr6 can put the Palatine to shame, 

And the salt air is harsh to the soft breezes of Anjou.’’ 


92 


Brother and Sister. 


I believe I have never tasted sweeter pleasures, 
pleasures which left behind them less remorse, than 
those charming excursions when I was alone with 
my earthly angel under God’s fair heaven. 


CHAPTER V. 


the devii/s pooh 

\T EEDLESS to say, it was with the greatest care 
* that I was prepared to receive the Sacrament of 
the most Holy Eucharist. Keenly alive to the im- 
portance of this great act, Marguerite left nothing 
undone which could serve to dispose my soul for the 
visit of our Lord, especially during the months just 
previous to the event, when her efforts were re- 
doubled. I approached the Holy Table for the first 
time in 1852, on the Feast of Pentecost, which fell 
that year on the third of June, an ever memorable 
date for me. This signal favor made the more pro- 
found impression upon me, because, a few hours be- 
fore, I had narrowly escaped death. I shall briefly 
narrate this incident. 

My sister and I had been at Saint-Laurent for 
three days, making the preparatory retreat. On the 
evening of the second of June, after hearing the 
afternoon instruction and going to confession, I re- 
turned to Mesnil with Marguerite, who had remained 
in the church waiting for me. We were both very 
much affected and very happy — so happy that we 
found no words in which to express our feelings, 
and we walked half way in silence. I shall never 
93 


94 


Brother and Sister. 


forget the sense of profound and soothing peace 
which pervaded my mind and heart that evening. 
Marguerite did not disturb my recollection. She 
herself semed to experience great interior joy. We 
were very far from foreseeing the scene of ex- 
citement in which we were to be the actors an hour 
later. 

As we drew near Mesnil, I said in a low tone to 
my sister : “Guitte, is it true what the Father said 
this morning that there are children who offend the 
good Lord again after their first Holy Commun- 
ion ?” 

Marguerite smiled. “It is true, Paul, dear,” she 
said; “but it is because they do not pray as they 
should. If you are faithful to your prayers you 
will never displease Him again, at least not in a 
grave matter.” 

“Guitte,” I said again, “suppose I should ask our 
Lord to let me die now sooner than risk losing my 
soul by living any longer?” 

“Ask Him, if you wish,” she replied, “Our good 
Jesus will surely be pleased with that prayer.” 

I ran at once toward a calvary set up by the road- 
side, and kneeling before the sign of our Redemp- 
tion, I asked God not to let me live if I were going 
to make use of my life only to lose my soul. 

We continued on our way, talking together of the 
Heavenly Guest who was so soon to take up His 
abode in my heart. 

I would willingly have remained with Marguerite 


The Devil's Pool. 


95 


the rest of the day, talking about God. When we 
reached home (it was then about five o’clock), I 
asked her to stay with me until supper time. 

“I would like to very much, dear boy,” she said. 
“To-day especially. Nothing would please me better 
than to be with you, but I must go and see poor 
Madame Heurteaux of L,a Soriniere, who is still 
very sick. I do not want to leave you to-morrow, so 
I must go there now.” 

Cillette passed the window just then, and Mar- 
guerite called to her : “Go and tell your brother to 
saddle Fanfan and bring him round to me at once.” 

“What!” I said, somewhat surprised, “are you 
going on horseback this time ?” 

“Yes,” she answered. “Fa Soriniere is five miles 
away, and I am a little tired with all the walking I 
have done already, and, besides, I want to get back 
soon.” 

“Well,” said I, “I will go as far as the Gemme 
with you and then come home and wait. Don’t be 
long, for I have so many things to tell you about.” 

“Fanfan has swift feet,” she answered. “He has 
had nothing to do for five or six days, and he will 
fly like a swallow. In fifty minutes at the least I 
shall be back.” 

We started about half-past five o’clock down the 
long avenue of chestnut trees, which extended as far 
as the meadows bordering the Gemme. I think I 
have already said that this river was only about 
fifteen hundred yards from Mesnil. Fanfan, sad- 


96 


Brother and Sister. 


died and bridled, followed us, playing in the deep 
grass. Unmoved by his plaintive whining we had 
left Tom tied in his corner, which was an unusual 
proceeding, but I wanted to avoid any occasion of 
distraction which might result from romping too 
boisterously with my old friend. 

Arrived at the end of the avenue, we noticed that 
some one had left open the gate which separated 
the property from the commons. “Let’s shut the 
gate,” said Marguerite, “or else the cows and sheep 
will be running all over the place.” 

It was an oak affair, about six feet high, which 
was fastened by means of a padlock. When we had 
closed it, I said, laughing: “Now, you will have to 
dismount, on your way back, and open it again; 
unless you make Fanfan take the leap.” 

“No indeed !” said she. “I have no desire to prac- 
tise high-jumping.” 

A few minutes later we had crossed the meadows, 
and reached the river bank, which in this place 
was quite steep and rocky. We stood just above a 
sudden decided deepening in the bed of the stream, 
a sort of open hole about thirty feet down, called by 
the country-folk the “Devil’s Pool.” The Gemme, 
up to that point very rapid, flows more quietly op- 
posite Mesnil, for the course of the river here 
changes abruptly from north to west, and the bank 
itself opposes an obstacle to the swiftness of the cur- 
rent. It is the most dangerous place along the river, 
for the current, suddenly broken, here produces a 


Ths De;vxi/s Pooiv. 


97 


violent whirlpool. Many accidents had taken place 
here. Two children about my age had been drowned 
a few days before. 

“Go back to the house now,” Marguerite said to 
me; “don’t stay here by yourself; you know how 
afraid I am of this place.” 

“Don’t worry about me,” I answered. “I am not 
going to drown myself to-day. I just want to get 
you a little bunch of those lovely white flowers. 
They are just meant for you. I can easily reach 
them.” 

As I spoke, I ran to the very edge of the bank, and 
began to pick the flowers which had excited my de- 
sire. My feet rested for an instant on the top of the 
rock which overhung the Devil’s Pool. 

“Come back, Paul,” called Marguerite. “Don’t 
stand there ! Do be careful !” 

“Be easy,” I replied gaily. “What are you afraid 
of ? It’s safe. See here !” 

Hardly had I uttered the words, when the crest 
of the rock, undermined by the weather, gave way 
beneath my feet with a terrible crash. In vain did I 
try to catch myself by laying hold of the branches 
of a bush which I passed in my flight; they broke, 
with my weight, and I was precipitated from the top 
of the bank into the deep water. I heard Marguer- 
ite’s heart-rending cry, and then I felt myself 
sinking to the bottom. A thousand thoughts rushed 
through my brain in those few seconds. “Here I 
am in the Devil’s Pool. No chance of getting out. 


7 


98 


Brother and Sister. 


So I am to die after all before my First Communion ! 
It’s just as well. I am in a state of grace, I hope. 
Perhaps my prayer that I said awhile ago has been 
heard. Ah! If Tom were only here! Poor Mar- 
guerite! This will kill her! What will the other 
children say to-morrow, when they hear I am 
drowned ?” 

Meanwhile I struggled convulsively ; my eyes and 
nostrils filled with water ; I seemed to hear a deafen- 
ing noise, and felt that I was choking. I still had 
time to ask God to forgive my sins, and then I lost 
consciousness. 

When Marguerite, who was only a few steps from 
the water’s edge, saw me fall, she rushed forward 
with the intention of jumping in after me. She did 
not know how to swim, and her only hope was for 
some providential intervention. “Holy Mother, help 
us !” she prayed. 

Just as she was about to throw herself into the 
pool, the idea darted through her brain: “Oh, if I 
only had Tom here!” Then a ray of hope appeared. 
She had Fanfan. He was remarkably light, and fleet 
as a race horse. She might have time to go and fetch 
the Newfoundland. Turning back, she whistled to 
Fanfan who was but a few yards away and came 
trotting up at her call. Swift as thought she had 
mounted and set off at top speed for Mesnil. The 
spirited animal tore on at a wild pace as if he knew 
his master’s life depended on the swiftness of his 
limbs. Clinging to his mane to keep her seat, Mar- 


The DeviUs Pool. 


99 


guerite’s hope began to rise as she realized the mar- 
velous rapidity with which she was being borne 
along. “Perhaps I shall be in time !” she said to her- 
self. But soon a terrible thought struck her : “I closed 
the gate! Panfan will never be able to leap it, and I 
shall have to dismount and lose at least a minute ! O 
God, have mercy on us! Help me to get over the 
gate ! Dear God, I must ! My brother’s life depends 
on it !” 

And now only a few yards and they would reach 
the barrier. “Up! Fanfan! Good horse! Up, up, 
jump!” 

Marguerite’s heart almost stops beating from sus- 
pense, and she shuts her eyes so as not to see . . . 
Ah ! Victory ! A superb leap bears them to the other 
side of the gate. Bravo, Fanfan, bravo! The faith- 
ful creature resumes his furious course and flies like 
lightning up the avenue of chestnut trees. Dike a 
whirlwind he sweeps by the house and stops short 
before Tom’s corner as if he knew the intentions of 
his mistress. To leap down, untie the dog, shout 
to the amazed Cillette to tell everybody to hurry to 
the Devil’s Pool, that I had just fallen in, was but 
the work of an instant. Fanfan had not budged an 
inch, but stood motionless at his post like a soldier 
on guard. Hardly had my sister regained the saddle, 
when he started back again at the same fiendish 
pace as before. Marguerite no longer feared the 
gate. In a flash her horse had taken it as easily as 
a chamois, and stopped of his own accord at the place 


L.of C. 


100 


Brother and Sister. 


whence I had fallen. Tom got there almost as soon. 

“In the water, Tom ! Go, good dog!” cried Mar- 
guerite, pointing to the spot where I had fallen. 
“There, there! Go, get your master, Tom! Fetch 
him out ! Do you hear, fetch him !” Her voice was 
at the same time commanding and entreating. 

The animal, with the wonderful instinct of his 
race, understood that some one was to be saved, and 
plunged into the water. For thirty mortal seconds 
Marguerite remained on her knees upon the bank, 
her eyes fixed upon the surface of the pool, which 
gradually regained the smoothness disturbed by 
Toni’s leap. At last the dog reappeared. Oh heav- 
ens ! He had found nothing. “My Mother Mary,” 
prayed the poor child, “it was you who made me his 
mother. Do not let him die before his First Com- 
munion ! I promise, if you will bring him back, to go 
with him on foot to your shrine at Nantes, and al- 
ways to fast on Saturday in your honor.” 

Meantime, the dog, after getting his breath, dived 
again under the water. Marguerite upon the rock, 
her hand at her heart, which was beating as if about 
to burst, felt her strength leaving her. “I thought,” 
she said to me later, “that I would die of anguish ; 
but I still had the energy to ask our Lord to leave 
you at the bottom of the pool, if it were better for 
your soul’s salvation.” 

Suddenly, a hundred feet away from the place 
where I had fallen in, Tom made his appearance once 
more, and, to Marguerite’s unspeakable joy, she saw 


The Devii/s Pooe. 


101 


him swimming slowly toward the shore, holding 
me above the water by my clothes which he had 
seized firmly in his teeth. The sight brought back 
her strength and presence of mind. She rushed to 
the spot toward which the Newfoundland was mak- 
ing, and took me in her arms, pale, disfigured, and 
apparently lifeless. I had been ten minutes in the 
Devil’s Pool. 

At this point my aunt, old Rose, whose heart had 
lent strength to her limbs, Cillette, Lexis, and all the 
people on the place ran up terrified, shouting, 
groaning, weeping and sobbing. Marguerite, who 
had recovered her composure and energy, at once 
began to use the most sensible means of restoring 
me. I was out of the water, but it remained to be 
seen whether I was still alive. The most vigorous 
rubbing had no effect. The point was to make me 
draw my breath, but my teeth were so tightly set 
that one was broken in the effort to force open my 
mouth. Once this was accomplished, it was possible 
to breathe a little air in, and to move the tongue, 
drawing it out at regular intervals, and all this 
gradually revived me by reestablishing the action of 
the lungs. 

I was saved. Still weak and almost insensible, I 
was carried on a mattress back to Mesnil, where 
Marguerite, after administering a cordial, put me to 
bed. I soon fell into a deep sleep. About nine in 
the evening I awoke, and was able to get up and take 
something to eat. The next morning, as fresh and 


102 


Brother and Sister. 


well as if nothing had happened, without even feel- 
ing fatigued, I went to Saint-Laurent, accompanied 
by the whole household, and made my First Com- 
munion with undisturbed recollection. I have always 
attributed this recovery, so rapid and so opportune, 
to Marguerite’s prayers. My gratitude to our Lord 
was lively and sincere. “I owe my life to you 
twice over, O my God,” I prayed on receiving Him 
in my heart, “but I know well it is only for eternity 
you have saved me, since I asked for life only on that 
condition.” 

The story of my escape was already known to 
everybody in Saint-Laurent and in the country round 
about. Our good pastor alluded to it in the little 
address which he made just before Holy Commun- 
ion, and impressed upon us the importance of always 
being in a state pleasing to God. After Mass every 
one gathered around. The children, and their elders, 
too, all wanted to see me and shake my hand. Mar- 
guerite had to give over and over again, a hundred 
times at least, her account of the adventure, and they 
were never tired of singing her praises, while Fan- 
fan’s speed and the wonderful instinct of Tom came 
in for their share of admiration. In short, we were 
all four the heroes of the hour. 

My aunt had invited Abbe Aubry and his assist- 
ants, as well as the notary and Doctor Durand, to 
dine at Mesnil. The repast was a joyful one, as may 
well be imagined. Old Rose surpassed herself. I 
think she must have made up her mind to make me 


Th£ D^vii/s Pool. 


103 


guilty of the sin of gluttony on the very day of my 
First Communion. Marguerite gaily diverted to her 
horse and dog all the compliments showered upon 
her, so, at dessert, we unanimously awarded a gold 
medal of the first class to the brave Newfoundland 
and a bronze medal to the little horse to whose swift 
feet I owed my life. 

“Goodness !” said good Cillette, “who ever saw 
smarter beasts than those two? All they need is to 
talk. If it wasn’t for them, Master Paul would have 
drowned; that’s sure — and our mistress too. No 
one can deny it ; for she would never have the heart 
to leave the poor little fellow to flounder in the 
water. She would have been in it this very minute 
herself, that’s sure, if she hadn’t had those two ani- 
mals with her.” 

Marguerite and I were resolved to fulfil as soon as 
possible the promise she made in the hour of danger, 
so we planned our pilgrimage for the Monday after 
Trinity Sunday. The journey would take three 
days. We were to spend the first night at Varades, 
the second at Oudon, reaching Nantes the evening of 
the third day, which was the vigil of Corpus Christi. 
Aunt Dumoulin, kind soul that she was, arranged to 
be present with all her people on Thursday, at the 
Mass of the pilgrimage. For this purpose she hired 
a big, two-horse brake large enough to hold all the 
household at Mesnil, and appointed Wednesday for 
the day of departure. Our pastor also declared his 
intention of joining the pious expedition, and cele- 


104 


Brother and Sister. 


brating Mass at the altar of Our Lady of Prompt 
Succor at Nantes. The assistants, to their regret, 
were obliged to remain behind to attend to the affairs 
of the parish. 

We set out on the day appointed with eager step 
and joyful hearts, crossing the Loire at Saint-Flor- 
ent in order to follow the right bank to Nantes. The 
journey was delightful and far too short to satisfy 
me. I was carried away with the prospect of sleep- 
ing at an inn like a real tourist. Marguerite was less 
enthusiastic, but she sympathized with my innocent 
enjoyment. We reached the Hotel de Bretagne at 
Nantes on Wednesday evening, and there we found 
Abbe Aubry and my aunt and her party, who had 
arrived a few hours before. The next morning, at 
an early hour, we made our way to the Church of 
Sainte-Croix, where Abbe Aubry celebrated the Mass 
of thanksgiving. I was allowed to receive Holy 
Communion, in view of the extraordinary occasion, 
though but ten days had passed since my First Com- 
munion. Rose, Cillette and Lexis did likewise. 
Even my aunt, forgetting her Jansenistic notions, 
approached the Holy Table in thanksgiving to our 
Lord for having preserved us. From that day she 
made it a rule to receive the Holy Eucharist once a 
month. The good Lord prepared her in this way 
for her death, which was not far off. 

After Mass we returned to the hotel, where an 
excellent breakfast awaited us. About ten o’clock 
we got into the wagon, and bidding farewell to 


The Devii/s Pooiv. 


105 


Nantes, started back for Mesnil. At Oudon we 
rested, and by nightfall we were at home again. 

The eventful second of June remained fixed in my 
memory, and it was my safeguard in the evil days. 


PART II. 

SILHOUETTES FROM ANJOU. 


CHAPTER VI. 

GOOD MEN AND WOMEN. 

H AD I the brush of a Greuze or a Teniers, I 
might reproduce types, scenes, and customs cur- 
ious from more than one point of view. Certain it is 
that I should not lack for subjects. 

Sometimes, as I think I have said, I accompanied 
my sister on her walks or drives in our part of An- 
jou, and with her visited the homes of the peasants. 
These good people received us with wonderful cordi- 
ality. You should have seen their simple joy when 
Marguerite appeared at their cottage doors ! Those 
who were in the house ran to tell the members of the 
family who were at work in the fields, and soon the 
whole household would gather around “Mamzelle 
and the little chap/’ Milk, fruit, cheese, and wine, 
sparkling and frothy in great pitchers of brown 
earthenware, — the best provisions which the house 
afforded were set forth upon the table in the twink- 
ling of an eye. My sister never touched them, but 
I was, like all children, always hungry, and I did full 
justice to the fruit and cream. As for the wine of 
Anjou, which goes right to the head, and without 


106 


Good Men and Women. 


107 


warning surreptitiously steals the strength out of 
one’s legs, I had orders never to accept any. If any 
one in the house were sick, Marguerite would do all 
she could to improve his condition, at the same time, 
by her sympathy and encouragement, helping him to 
offer up his sufferings. Then she would talk to the 
children, inquire as to their behavior, and get them 
to say their prayers. She was listened to as if she 
were an oracle, father, mother and children readily 
receiving the advice, encouragement and, when oc- 
casion demanded it, the reproofs of the young lady 
from Mesnil. They had much to say on the subjects 
which are uppermost in the peasant’s mind, the storm 
which beat down the grain, the rain which bruised 
the grapes, the diseases of their horses and cattle, 
all the mishaps of country life, the misbehavior of 
the children who were so troublesome to bring up, 
and the rest. 

The country people of Anjou form a very interest- 
ing study. Essentially Christian for the most part — 
at least at the time of which I write — they are, as a 
general rule, gentle and peaceable, but, at the same 
time, they easily take fire, and, when occasion arises, 
they do not hesitate to express their opinions. At 
first they are timid and silent in the presence of 
strangers, but their jovial humor and spontaneity of 
expression soon assert themselves when they are with 
those whom they know. There is nothing more en- 
tertaining than the inexhaustible conversation of the 
peasants — especially the peasants of the left bank 


108 


Brother and Sister. 


of the Loire. Allow me to acquaint you with a few 
of the types in my collection. 

We will first, if you please, visit in Marguerite’s 
train the home of the Chopins, the tenants of Der- 
valliere, one of my aunt’s farms. I must remind 
you that these people, having twelve children to rear, 
had placed with us, in the capacity of domestics, the 
two oldest, Cillette and Lexis, who are already old 
acquaintances. The father of the Chopin family was 
a man of forty-five or fifty years, of a jovial and 
cheerful disposition, which he maintained by means 
of frequent visits to his cellar. If he occasionally 
went down sad or surly, he always came up again 
smiling and gay; yet he never left his reason in the 
bottom of the bottle, and though, after drinking, a 
straight line might no longer seem to him the short- 
est distance between two points, still the curves which 
he described in his course never spread as far as the 
ditch. I never saw him really drunk, but his natural 
good humor was accentuated when his nostrils were 
greeted by the perfume of the lucent emeralds and 
sparkling diamonds lighted up in his glass by the 
insinuating little demon in the wine of Anjou. Then 
Chopin’s heart expanded and was ready to take in 
the whole world. He would have given to the first- 
comer all the savings so carefully put by in the old 
woolen stocking in the bottom of the chest. Fortu- 
nately his wife was on the look-out, and always put 
the key in her pocket when she saw her husband 
coming out of the cellar or returning from the vil- 


Good Me:n and Wome;n. 


109 


lage, where, in company with his boon companions, 
he had been drinking to the speedy restoration of the 
monarchy. 

An uncompromising royalist was Chopin! I re- 
member one day when he was extremely gay he took 
me aside, and communicated to me in confidence his 
plans for the government of France. 

“See here, Master,” said he, in all seriousness, “the 
Comtesse de Chambord must die as soon as possible, 
and then Napoleon would have to die too . . . 

and no great loss either! Very well! Now Henri 
V. would marry the widow and adopt the child (the 
Prince Imperial), and there you are, with everybody 
suited. What do you think of it, Master ?” 

The pastor met him, one day, and reproved him 
for having been “in the Lord’s vineyard” again. “As 
for that, Father,” he answered, “you ought not to 
be put out. It is not a burn this time, it’s only a 
scorch.” And, as Abbe Aubry moved on laughingly, 
his parishioner called after him: “Tell me now, 
Father, will you call it a scorch? I want to know, 
see ? Because if you’re not going to call it a scorch, 
I’ll just go to confession to the assistant, and he’ll 
let me off easy, that I know.” 

One more anecdote to complete the portrait of the 
man. 

A few years before, he had lost his mother-in-law, 
the widow Robin, whose peevish disposition had 
brought about many a storm in the Chopin household. 
When the good woman passed out of this life, the 


110 


Brother and Sister. 


young 1 men of the neighborhood bore her body to the 
church in an open coffin, according to the custom of 
the country. The funeral ceremonies over, the pro- 
cession took up its way to the cemetery. The road 
thither was extremely narrow and overgrown with 
brambles, which as the bearers moved along, switched 
into Widow Robin’s face. Aroused by the pain, the 
supposed dead woman, who had only been in a stu- 
por, came to life again, to the great amazement of 
the mourners. They carried her back to the home 
of her son-in-law. I do not know whether the dis- 
position of the old lady was in any way softened 
after her resurrection. Be that as it may, two' years 
later Widow Robin died for good, and was straight- 
way carried to the cemetery along the same route as 
before. At this point the story becomes a bit scandal- 
ous. They say that Chopin, when the procession was 
about to pass by the thorny bushes, called out in an 
anxious tone: “Easy, boys, easy! Took out for 
the thorns !” 

I will not swear to the truth of this. Tongues wag 
fast on the left bank of the river ! 

Soon after her recovery from the illness which 
had so nearly proved fatal, Marguerite had to go to 
the Dervalliere farm to see the youngest child, little 
Chariot, who was troubled with convulsions most 
alarming to his parents. As the malady was not at 
all contagious, my sister had promised that I might 
go with her, at which I was wild with joy, for the 
farmer’s wife always gave me the most delicious 
cream and the very finest of strawberries. 


Good Men and Women. 


Ill 


When we reached the Dervalliere, the father of 
the Chopin family was in the fields with two of his 
boys, the oldest of the children after Cillette and 
Lexis. His wife, hearing Fanfan’s well-known trot, 
came out of the house surrounded by her brood of 
little ones romping, playing and hanging about her 
skirts as best they might, all except Chariot, the little 
sick one, who was asleep in his cradle. Hardly had 
the carriage stopped before the door, when the good 
woman began to talk, and kept on in an uninterrupted 
stream during the whole of our stay, 

“Well, Good-day, Mistress ! And so you are well 
again now? Well, that’s good, but I hadn’t much 
hopes of it! And is every one well at the house? 
And the Mistress, and Monsieur Charles, is he well ? 
And how is his little lady? And so he never came 
our way while he was here? And I was saying: 
'To be sure, Monsieur Charles will bring his wife to 
see Dervalliere before they go.’ Well, it’s a pity 
they did not get here. I saw her the other day, just 
the same, when she took the carriage to go away. 
My, but she is pretty ! And not the least bit proud 
with a person. Monsieur Charles has done well for 
himself, to be sure. And I hear she is from Lyons, 
his lady. The men say it’s very far from here. It’s 
a bigger place than this, isn’t it, Mistress?” 

“It is indeed, Madame Chopin. It is a large city, 
far away from here at the other end of France.” 

“You don’t say! And there are a lot of people 
there, I suppose. Is the country like ours ? Do they 


112 


Brother and Sister. 


have vineyards? Well, if they are all like Monsieur 
Charles’ wife, they must be good people, that’s sure. 
But most likely it’s the same there as it is in most 
places. There are good, and there are bad, aren’t 
there, Mistress? But it must be a fine place, since 
Monsieur Charles likes it so well. Ah, but I am 
glad to see you here, Mamzelle Marguerite. How is 
Rose? She is as well as ever, I suppose? And 
Cillette and Lexis, are you still suited with them? 
Well, I’m glad of that! Let me tell you, Mistress, 
if they give you any trouble, just box their ears well. 
You can’t manage children nowadays without it. 
But you are too good, Mamzelle, you couldn’t hurt 
a flea ! You’re too tender with them, and that’s why 
they cut up sometimes. Mathurin, go quick and un- 
hitch Mamzelle’s horse, and take him round and feed 
him. My, but he’s a beautiful little beast! And 
look at the heat the poor creature’s in! Well, no 
wonder, such a day as this. Come in, Mamzelle, 
come in, if you’ll be so good. Things don’t go so 
bad here, thanks be to God! But they might be a 
little better, too. Chariot, our little one, has been so 
sick ever since Monday. He turns and twists and 
jumps, and I can’t get him still. I think it must be 
worms that are troubling him. I had a mind to send 
for the doctor, for I didn’t think you’d be well in 
time. Sit down, do, Mamzelle. Marie, pull up the 
arm-chair for Mamzelle. Hurry up, you lazy child ! 
My senses ! Where did I ever get such a ninny as 
that ! I said two days ago to my husband : ‘Jean, 


Good Men and Women. 113 

go get the doctor !’ Not that I like Dr. Durand. He 
is so big and red, he scares me, that man. Well, 
here I was alone, and afraid the poor little fellow 
might go off at any time, and my man didn’t want to 
get Dr. Durand. But I scolded and scolded, and at 
last he said he’d go. But, Lord, Mamzelle, he was 
so tipsy! He can’t be two days without taking too 
much. Mathurin, did you feed Mamzelle’s little 
horse?” 

“Yes, mama.” 

“Now, you children just get out ! You make too 
much noise. Our heads are splitting.” And Mad- 
ame Chopin, with a vigorous motion of her arms, 
swept the crowd that encumbered her out of 
the room, and closing the door on them, seated her- 
self and resumed: “Well, Mamzelle, my husband 
started off in the morning, and he didn’t put in an 
appearance, and neither did the doctor. And I was 
just sure he was tipsy, and would fall in the road. 
Just then the children began to come from school, 
and I called to them: ‘Boys, if you see my man 
lying in the road, push him over into the ditch so the 
stage won’t run over hjim.’ And they said they would ; 
but you never can depend on children! You know 
that, Mamzelle. Well, at last my man came back. 
By that time it was after seven o’clock, and — would 
you believe it ? — he had never been to town at all ! I 
knew very well where he had been. He had spent 
his time at the inn, drinking with his cronies! Oh, 
these fool men ! They are all alike. Once they get 


8 


114 


Brother and Sister. 


it in their heads to drink, the Devil himself cannot 
change their minds! Ah, if I only had the priest 
here we used to have, Abbe Rapin ! He could keep 
them straight! You didn’t know him, did you, 
Mamzelle ? Oh, no. ' He was before your time. It’s 
fifteen years since he was sent to Mouilleron. He 
was already getting old then. His hair was getting 
white. 'Little Grey,’ they generally called him. Ah, 
but it’s a pity he ever left us ! I remember one day 
there was a fellow in the church, who kept on talking 
at High Mass. 'Little Grey’ was taking up the col- 
lection, and he saw the fellow talking. He put down 
the collection basket, and went for the fellow to give 
him a good whack. Then the man got scared, and 
ran out the door, but 'Little Grey’ ran after him in 
his surplice and biretta. The man ran like a rabbit 
to the other end of the place, where it comes up 
against the door of the inn, and thought he would 
hide in old Souriceau’s garden — you know old 
Souriceau that keeps the shop? Well, 'Little Grey’ 
was right on his heels, however, and when he went 
in the door ‘Little Grey’ flew after him, jumped over 
the counter, pounced on him and gave him — his 
benediction! You can imagine, eh? Well, after 
that my young man knew better than to talk in 
church. They both went back, and Abbe Rapin 
finished the collection, and the young man kept quite 
still till Mass was over, and then he went to confes- 
sion to Abbe Rapin. We have no more priests like 
that, let me tell you! And more’s the pity! The 


Good Me;n and Womsn. 


115 


men were afraid to get tipsy those days. ‘Look 
out!’ they would say. ‘Here comes Little Grey/ 
And my, but he could preach ! That was preaching ! 
When he first came — and he was just priested then — 
he could preach very well even then, a little young 
priest just fresh made, and he knew how to preach 
right off. After him we had Abbe Guibert, the 
strong man they called him. My ! He was big and 
strong, and such a fine-looking man ! He could lift 
a cask of wine to his knee, and then drink from the 
bung-hole. Everyone loved him, too, and I tell 
you, when he told the men to go to confession, they 
went ! Ah, well ! And now they have sent us Abbe 
Berteaux. Well, he’s a good priest — I don’t deny 
that ; but he is not big or strong. No, he’s little, and 
the men are not afraid of him at all! I tell you 
what it is, Mamzelle, and I say it because it’s the 
truth, the Bishop, with all due respect to him, is just 
making game of us ; else why does he send us a girl 
for assistant priest? O, yes; the men are mighty 
hard to manage nowadays. That’s not to say I have 
much to complain of in mine. No. He’s a good 
man, sure, and hasn’t a bad streak in him when he’s 
not drinking. But that miserable wine! And he’s 
always a mind to drink. ‘I want a drink ;’ ‘let’s take 
a drink;’ ‘will you have a drink?’ and so it goes. If 
a neighbor passes by, ‘Come in,’ he says, ‘and try my 
cask.’ And then, when they have both tasted our 
wine, they go off to try the neighbor’s wine, and they 
go the rounds, and so it keeps up until all the casks 


116 


Brother and Sister. 


are dry. That keeps them tipsy most of the time 
for six months of the year. It’s true it takes very 
little to muddle my man ! Three or four glasses, and 
he’s done for. That’s not like the farmer at La 
Perrine ! When you see him tipsy, you may be sure 
he has drunk at least nine bottles in succession.” 

Here Madame Chopin paused for breath, and Mar- 
guerite took advantage of the intermission to go over 
to the cradle and inquire into the condition of the 
sick baby. It appeared that his case was not very 
serious. Marguerite prepared a remedy which she 
administered herself, and after she had prescribed 
some simple treatment, we took leave of the good 
people of Dervalliere. 

I might also tell of a visit which we made on Pela- 
gie Saboureau, of the village of Mare-Noire, in the 
parish of Saint-Laurent. Worthy Mother Sabou- 
reau must have been at that time sixty-eight or 
seventy years old. She had been Charles’ nurse, and 
he made a point of going to see her with his wife, 
when they came to Mesnil on their wedding trip. 

We — Charles, Lucie, Marguerite, and I — arrived 
unexpectedly at the old woman’s house. She had 
no idea of the surprise in store for her. She was 
very short-sighted, and it was a long time since she 
had seen my brother, and so at first she did not recog- 
nize him. She was extremely polite to Marguerite, 
whom she saw often, and also to the handsome officer 
and the pretty lady who did her the honor of coming 
to her house ; but she did not dare ask their names. 


Good Men and Women. 


117 


“And so, Mother Saboureau,” said Marguerite, 
“you do not know who this fine young man is whom 
I have brought to see you ?” 

The old woman wiped her eyes, put on her specta- 
cles, after carefully polishing the glasses, took 
Charles unceremoniously by the arm, and drew him 
over to the window. Suddenly turning to Marguer- 
ite who, with Lucie, was in fits of laughter, she said : 
“Is it really my boy, Mamzelle?” 

“It is, indeed, Mother Saboureau. It’s your big 
Charles come back to see you. He has changed a 
great deal, hasn’t he?” 

The good woman, crying for joy, threw her arms 
around Charles’ neck. 

“And it’s real good of you, my little boy, to come 
and see your old nurse !” 

“Why, of course, I came to see you. It’s the least 
I could do. Don’t I always love you just the 
same, Nana?” 

“Well, well! And how handsome you have 
grown! And what fine clothes you have on! And 
look, Mamzelle Marguerite, at the height he’s got 
to! That’s because he was well fed when he was a 
baby ! When he was little, all the women about here 
were just as jealous as they could be. 

“ ‘Pelagie,’ they would say, ‘aren’t you ashamed 
to have that boy get so fat?’ Of course, I was not 
ashamed. And when I took him home to the Hut- 
terie, to your house, for his mother to see him, she 
said: ‘How beautiful he is! You are very good, 


118 


Brother and Sister. 


Pelagie, to take such fine care of my Charles,’ and 
I said : ‘Lord, Madame, he is as fat as I can make 
him.’ ‘You have done very well with him,’ she said, 
and they gave me twenty francs over and above the 
wages, because he was so much bigger than they ex- 
pected.” 

“And now tell me, my boy,” continued Mother 
Saboureau, “who is the lovely lady with you ? Isn’t 
she your wife?” 

“Yes, Nana, and she loves you, too.” 

“Of course, I do,” said Lucie, who was much in- 
terested in this little scene. “And I must thank you, 
too, for having taken such good care of my future 
husband,” and she gave her her own picture and that 
of Charles set in a pretty medallion, which she hung 
around her neck, at the same time slipping a gener- 
ous sum of money into her hand. 

“A thousand thanks, Madame,” said Mother 
Saboureau, “and now, if you want me to be per- 
fectly happy, let me kiss you, too.” 

“Why, certainly,” said Lucie, and she stooped, and 
kissed the old woman’s wrinkled cheek. 

“And now, Madame,” Mother Saboureau went 
on, “I can tell you, you have done well for yourself. 
You drew a lucky number, when you got my big 
Charles for a husband. He will never give you any 
trouble on purpose. But, Lord ! he is lively and al- 
ways on the go. It is not easy to hold him in. If 
he makes you trot the way he did me sometimes when 
he was little, you will have need of patience, I can 


Good Men and Women. 


119 


tell you ! But, Lord ! he is not really bad — not the 
least in the world. And then, let me tell you, if he 
is not good, you must keep him in. That’s the way 
I always managed. I would say, ‘You shan’t go 
out!’ And then I would tie him to the foot of my 
bed, and how he hated that! Oh, it would not be 
fifteen minutes before he was ready to say he was 
sorry !” 

“Very well! I will try that, too, some day,” said 
Lucie, “I am glad you told me of it.” 

At last we said good-by to Mother Saboureau, 
and started back for Mesnil, laughing heartily on the 
way at the amusing interview. 

“Really,” said Lucie, “that visit alone is worth 
the trip from Lyons to Angers.” 

Another character was a poor woman in evident 
distress, who stopped us one day when we were 
about twelve or fifteen miles from Mesnil on one of 
those pleasant excursions which Marguerite and I 
took once a month. We had camped for the day in 
a green meadow beside a sparkling brook, and, as 
evening was now coming on, we were about to pack 
up our belongings and depart for home, when we 
saw a big stout woman running toward us, sobbing 
as if her heart would break. When she had caught 
up to us and had recovered her breath, she said to 
Marguerite, beseechingly: “Aren’t you the young 
lady from Mesnil ?” And on being answered in the 
affirmative, “Well, then, it’s the good Lord Him- 
self has sent you. Oh, come quick, Mamzelle, if 


120 


Brother and Sister. 


you will be so good, and see a poor man who may 
be dead this very minute! It is Nicolas, my own 
brother, Mamzelle! And to think I should have 
caught you in time! We saw you from the other 
side of the river, and Nicolas’ wife and the women 
who were with us said to me: ‘Luzelle’ (that’s my 
name, if you please. That is, it’s what they call me, 
because my husband’s name was Luzeau), ‘Luzelle,’ 
they said, ‘that looks like the young lady from Mes- 
nil, who knows so much about sick people. Go and 
fetch her.’ And I didn’t like to. I said to myself: 
‘A fine young lady like that won’t want to come to 
poor people like us.’ But they said: ‘Yes, she will. 
She’s not a bit proud, and she’ll come if you ask 
her.’ ” 

“Of course I’ll go,” said Marguerite, “I will go 
right away, and you can get into the carriage with 
us, so you will get home quicker.” 

“Oh ! Mamzelle,” said the poor woman gratefully, 
“they said you were not proud. I can see that for 
myself now.” 

We were not long getting ready. In a few min- 
utes Fanfan was hitched up, and, all three packing 
ourselves as best we might in the little phaeton 
which was only made for two, we set off at full 
speed. 

The home of these poor people was only about 
three hundred yards away, but it was on the other 
side of the river, and, as there was no way of cross- 
ing at that point, we had to make a detour of a mile 
and a half before we came to a bridge. 


Good Men and Women. 


121 


On the way the good woman kept repeating by 
way of encouragement: “Well, if death is on him 
already, he can't escape, that’s sure; but if he’s not 
dead now, he won’t die yet awhile.” 

I could not help laughing at this philosophic re- 
frain, and I know Marguerite would have liked to, 
by the way she bit her lips. 

“Tell me what is the matter with your brother?” 
she said, trying to keep her countenance. 

“Oh ! Mamzelle, it would take magic to tell. You 
see the doctor at our place, Dr. Sorin, came this 
morning to see him, and left a big bottle of red 
medicine that cost fifteen sous, and he was to take 
it this evening. And there comes big Fine , 1 the girl 
at Laurent who works at the Soriniere farm, and 
knows a lot, because she went three years to the 
Sisters’ school, — well, big Fine looked at the bottle, 
and she said it had on it, ‘Shake well before giving 
this dose.’ ‘Lord,’ she said to Nicolas’ wife, my 
sister-in-law, ‘we have to shake your man. It says 
so on the bottle.’ And then, for we were not able, 
the three of us, Nicolas he is so very big and heavy, 
we got two women from the village to come and help 
us. And then we took him, two by the arms and 
two by the legs, and Fine at his head, and we shook 
him and shook him and shook him again. And at 
first he cried out like everything, but in the end he 
said nothing at all. And then we put him in bed 
again to give him his dose, but he couldn’t take it, 


1 Josephine. 


122 


Brother and Sister. 


and he has been lying there ever since, as though 
he was dead. And then we saw you across the river, 
and they said: ‘Luzelle, go over and fetch her/ 
and then I went after you !” 

Marguerite herself burst out laughing. “Foolish 
people !” she said, “it was the medicine, not the sick 
man, you were to shake !” 

“Lord! Perhaps so, Mamzelle. Then it’s Dr. 
Sorin’s fault, because he never told us.” 

Meanwhile Fanfan was devouring space, and in a 
few minutes we had crossed the two miles which 
separated us from the home of these good people. 
On arriving we found the house crowded and the 
whole village in a turmoil. Nicolas, the well- 
shaken, who had fainted from the violent treatment 
administered by his well-meaning relatives, had re- 
covered consciousness, and when Marguerite asked 
him how he did, he made answer in a strong, hearty 
voice: “Thank you kindly, lady. I don’t know 
what all these women have been up to. Get them 
to leave me alone, and to bring me a swallow of wine 
and a little bite of pork. That’s all I need.” 

We laughed heartily, for the appearance of the 
sick man was certainly reassuring. The women 
were full of excuses for having put us to so much 
trouble. 

“Don’t disturb yourselves about it,” said Mar- 
guerite. “If it were not for you, we should not have 
had this very pleasant drive, which we shall not soon 
forget.” 


Good Men and Women. 


123 


As we made ready to depart, Nicolas’ mother 
came forward with a magnificent eel, which her 
husband had caught the day before, and which she 
now offered Marguerite by way of honorarium. I 
had a horror of the creatures, and I began to make 
a horrible fuss and to beg my sister not to take that 
big snake into the phaeton. She was as much 
alarmed as I, and was very willing to forego the 
gift; so we resumed our way toward Mesnil in high 
spirits. So much so that we had to stop several 
times on the road to have our laugh out. 

But what purpose is served by permitting my pen 
to run on so freely in recording the every-day oc- 
currences of those good old times? Can there be 
any interest for the general reader in these sil- 
houettes from Anjou, whose only merit lies in the 
simplicity and unconsciousness of their subjects? 
Yet they tell me I should do wrong to despise these 
wayside flowers. Lacking other perfume, they at 
least exhale that of sincerity, which is a quality 
that authors love to find. So I continue, setting at 
rest the misgivings which have suggested them- 
selves. 

Did you ever know Pastoureau and his wife, the 
good people who held the lease of the farm of Patis- 
Clouet under “Mamzelle Dumoulin ?” Old man 
Pastoureau was, at the time of which I speak, some- 
where about seventy-five years old, and his worthy 
better-half, “La Pastourelle,” as the country people 
called her, was not far from the same age. They 


124 


Brother and Sister. 


had lived fifty years on that farm, which they had 
leased the day of their marriage, and which they 
had never left. They had had twelve boys, who, 
in due time, established themselves in the commune 
of Saint-Laurent or in the neighboring parishes, so 
that before very many years the country round about 
was peopled with sturdy little “Pastoureaus” and 
pretty little “Pastourelles.” There were one hun- 
dred and eighteen grandchildren, and great grand- 
children, so I was told, at the time of the death of 
the old people. That same year, 1854, twenty-two 
Pastoureaus served under their country’s flag at the 
same time. Naturally enough the grand-parents 
were unable to recognize all their descendants, who 
popped up unexpectedly from every quarter, salut- 
ing them with a joyful : “Good-day, Grandpa ! 
Good-day, Granny! Are you pretty well?” 

Only the oldest of the family remained at Patis- 
Clouet with his wife and ten children. The land 
was productive enough to support all that large 
household. 

Pastoureau and his wife lived in complete accord. 
A little cloud occasionally showed itself on their 
horizon, when the old man would return home on a 
Sunday evening, his legs just “a grain” heavier 
than usual because of a somewhat prolonged rest at 
the inn. La Pastourelle would then grow hot. One 
day I heard her address her husband in a rousing 
philippic. 

“There you are, drunk again, wicked man! I 


Good Men and Women. 


125 


can tell you, if I had known this when we were be- 
ing married, you’d still be waiting for my ‘yes’ 
before the parish priest !” 

“You are mightily mistaken, my deary,” replied 
Pastoreau peaceably, “this is not drunk. Don’t talk 
about what you have never seen. You are lucky, 
let me tell you, to have happened on a man like me ! 
There are wives who have not done so well.” 

“Aren’t you ashamed,” pursued the old woman, 
“at your age to get yourself in such a state as this? 
Just you wait until you die, and you’ll see whether 
the Good Lord doesn’t send you straight to hell !” 

Old Pastoureau shook his head gently, and after 
a moment’s silence, said, “The Good Lord, mark it 
well, is not like you.” Then he paused. “And lucky 
it is,” he added; “othewise — mercy on us! — we’d 
be in a bad way.” 

There the dispute ended, and there was fair 
weather all the week. It was truly a model house- 
hold. 

I remember well the celebration of their fiftieth 
wedding anniversary. It was magnificent. Abbe 
Berteaux, the first assistant pastor, had the church 
decorated. And when the time for Mass came, the 
church was as full of people as if it had been Sun- 
day. The party started from Patis-Clouet amid the 
firing of bombs and shooting off of muskets. There 
was a regular procession. The twenty-two soldiers, 
who had obtained leave of absence for a week, were 
all there, and Abbe Berteaux placed them at the 
head of the cortege. After them came the long file 


126 


Brother and Sister. 


of the hundred and eighteen Pastoureaus and Pas- 
tourelles. Next came the two old people and their 
twelve sons, all of whom were then living, and the 
pastor closed up the line, dressed in his best cassock 
in honor of the occasion. 

After the ceremony, they marched back to Patis- 
Clouet, stopping on the way at Mesnil, where my 
aunt offered refreshments to the entire party. The 
soldiers and the heads of the different families were 
each served with a glass of cognac, while the women 
and children had eau sucree. 

Old Rose, who was extremely economical, re- 
quired considerable urging before she would consent 
to dispose of this hospitality, which she considered 
wasteful. In consequence, the allowance of liquor 
in each glass was almost infinitesimal. This nig- 
gardliness called forth from old Pastoureau a sally 
which was typical of Anjou. One of his sons re- 
marked, smacking his lips after swallowing his own 
portion: “Famous stuff, that.” 

“Yes,” replied the old man, “but there was only 
about enough to fill the bill of a blackbird.” 

The procession soon resumed the march to the 
farm, where a great feast had been prepared. All 
the families in good circumstances in the neighbor- 
hood had contributed to this monster banquet. Pres- 
ents of eatables and of wine had come from every 
direction. The Comtesse de Saint-Julien sent an 
entire beef. It would take a second Homer to de- 
scribe this prodigious repast, which lasted from one 
o’clock in the afternoon to six. Two hundred peo- 


Good Men and Women. 


127 


pie were seated at the table of honor, which was set 
out-doors in front of the farm-house, and of that 
number exactly one hundred and thirty-two were 
Pastoureaus and Pastourelles. My aunt was seated 
on the right, my sister on the left of the patriarch. 
About four o’clock Marguerite and I went home, but 
my aunt stayed bravely on to the very end. 

I shall finish the sketch of Pastoureau with a char- 
acteristic anecdote, which took place a little before 
his death. The good man fell sick a few weeks after 
the celebration of his golden wedding. Grave symp- 
toms soon made their appearance, and it was judged 
advisable to send for the priest. When he had re- 
ceived the last Sacraments, Pastoureau commenced 
his pious and sincere thanksgiving out loud. 

“O, my Creator, O, my sweet Jesus,” he ex- 
claimed in perfectly audible tones, “how good You 
are to come and visit a creature like me! O, my 
kind Jesus, take me to Your holy Paradise, though 
I don’t deserve it, just so I can see You forever 
without end.” 

At this moment his good wife came to him with 
a little water in which the priest had purified his 
fingers. 

“I must drink that?” said Pastoureau. 

“Yes, dear, the priest says so.” 

The old man obeyed, and then said in an under- 
tone: “In faith, it’s more than fifty years since I 
took as much water.” Then he continued his 
thanksgiving aloud: “O, my Creator,” etc. The 
good soul quietly expired a few hours later. 


128 


Brother and Sister. 


And now would you like to see “eclater sans 
pompe” a rural idyl? 

Picture to yourself the scene: a vast meadow 
enclosed by thick hedges, which will permit us to 
see and hear the actors without restraining them by 
our presence. A public road runs by the prairie, la 
pree, as they call it in Anjou. The gate which 
usually closes the entrance to the pasture has, 
through carelessness, been left open. At the other 
end of the field, a narrow lane between two hedges 
leads to the farm. It is four o'clock in the after- 
noon. The burning sun of July oppresses nature 
and mankind. The cattle browse lazily here and 
there upon the new-mown grass, already dried by 
the torrid rays of the dog-days sun. 

Mistress Auger, of the farm of St. Nicolas, and 
her daughter Victorine watch the herd. At their 
feet Ta Brie, the faithful dog, sleeps with one eye, 
and keeps the other on the animals committed to his 
care. The two women, like their dog, doze peace- 
fully, while yonder, at the far end of the meadow, 
“the great white oxen” 

couches parmi les herbes, 

Bavent avec lenteur sur leurs fanons epais, 

Et suivent de leurs yeux languissants et superbes 
Le songe int^rieur qu’ils n’achevent jamais . 1 2 

1 Leconte de Lisle. Midi roi des Et6s. 

Couched in the grass 

Move their huge jaws in rhythmic rumination 
And with superb and languid eyes pursue 
The fleeting vision which they ne’er achieve. 


Good Men and Women. 129 

We were seated, Marguerite and I, upon a fresh 
carpet of moss, and I was enjoying at my leisure 
some delicious cherries, when all of a sudden a 
panic seized upon the herd, so peaceful up to that 
moment. I never knew what it was that frightened 
the animals, but off they started, altogether, with a 
terrible bellowing, their tails in mid-air. In one 
instant cows and oxen, bulls, heifers and calves tore 
in mad career across the field, and poured out upon 
the high road. 

Mistress Auger and her daughter, aroused by the 
uproar, began at once to scream and shriek, urging 
on La Brie by voice and gesture to the exercise of 
his functions. 

“La Brie!!! The cows, the cows! Good dog! 
Fetch ’em, fetch ’em! Bring them in! The cows, 
La Brie, the cows !” 

But the cows are already some distance off, and 
La Brie may be seen, leaping to right and left, nip- 
ping an ear here and a leg there, and driving the 
herd straight away on the road to Angers. 

At the sight of this the exasperation of the good 
women breaks forth in maledictions upon the stupid 
animal. “La Brie, La Brie! Ah! the stupid dog! 
Here dog, here dog! Did you ever in your life see 
such a plague ? La Brie, come home, sir ! ! He will 
take them all the way to Paris ! Bad dog ! Bad dog ! 
We paid four pistoles for him and he is not worth 
a sou! La Brie, come here, sir! Ah! Bad dog!” 

We laughed and laughed behind the hedge at 
9 


130 


Brother and Sister. 


the comic indignation of Mother Auger and her 
daughter. But suddenly a new element is intro- 
duced, and the actors pass from rage to admiration, 
an eminently dramatic sentiment, if we are to be- 
lieve the most competent critics. 

La Brie, who was being maligned (which is the 
usual fate of genius here below), La Brie, under- 
standing (if the word shocks you, provide me with 
a better), understanding, I say, the impossibility of 
making the herd about face, after a reflection 
made with the rapidity of lightning, decided to 
charge on the rear, which would drive his unruly 
subjects in a scientific curve up to the other entrance 
to the pasture. In like manner did the great Conde, 
suddenly inspired on the battlefield of Rocroy, im- 
provise on the spot a new plan of attack, which 
changed defeat into victory. 

A little later, when our two peasants had about 
exhausted the vocabulary of vituperation, they 
heard behind them the soft thunder of galloping 
hoofs, and in an instant they saw streaming out 
into the meadow the entire herd, once more safe 
within the enclosure, thanks to La Brie. The last 
harsh epithet, dying away upon their lips, gave 
place to a torrent of benedictions which continued 
for at least five minutes. 

“La Brie ! Ah ! Good dog ! And whoever would 
believe it ! He can do everything but talk, and there 
are plenty that talk and know less than he does. 
Good dog! Ah! What a good dog! We paid four 


Good Mkn and Wom^n. 


131 


pistoles for him, but he’s worth ten if he’s worth a 
sou. Come here, La Brie, come here. You are al- 
most as smart as people. Good dog! Ah! Good 
dog!” 

There is much philosophy beneath all this — and 
psychology, too. How our judgment on a certain 
subject may alter in a short space of time! For my 
part, when I feel myself beginning to warm up 
either in favor or in condemnation, I sometimes stop 
before my feelings have become irresistible, and 
then I pull out from beneath the ashes of time, the 
blurred silhouette of Mother Auger and Made- 
moiselle Victorine and La Brie, and I say to myself, 
smiling: “What a dog! Ah! What a dog!” 

Another character was old Granny Rigollet, 
snake-killer by profession, and having, so they said, 
infallible remedies for snake-bites. 

We had recourse to her one day, when old Tom 
was bitten by a snake. The poor animal swelled up 
immediately and we were afraid he was going to die. 
We were away out in the country, at least six miles 
from Mesnil. Fortunately Marguerite never went 
without her little medicine case. She at once made 
a deep incision in the wounded part, and poured in 
volatile salts. One would have thought that the 
poor dog knew that the pain was for his good. He 
bore without flinching the sharp stab of the lancet, 
and when Marguerite had finished, he licked her 
hand. We had great trouble getting him into the 
phaeton, for the poor beast was quite helpless. We 
were in a great hurry to get him home. 


132 


Brother and Sister. 


“I will stop at Granny Rigollet’s,” said Marguer- 
ite. “They say she has good remedies for snake 
poison. I have not much faith in them, but we can 
see what they are.” 

As soon as the old woman saw us, she exclaimed, 
tragically: “Another sin at the door of those mis- 
erable vipers ! Is it you, Mamzelle, or the little boy 
that’s bitten ? No, it’s the dog. So much the better. 
At least it’s not a Christian they have hold of this 
time! Now, Mamzelle, you must tell me the place 
where the dog was bitten, and what time he was 
bitten. Then to-morrow I will go at exactly the 
same time to that place and wait for the vermin, be- 
cause he will come out then to look for the dog in 
the same place where he bit him before. He must 
be killed; see? Or else the poison will keep on 
working in your dog. Those creatures always take 
their poison with them. If they move this way or 
that way the poison moves the same way, and that’s 
why it never stops working in the people that are 
bitten. But if the vermin is dead, then the poison 
can’t move any more, and the people get well — ani- 
mals, too. Let me tell you. You know Madame 
Huchet of La Faisanderie? Well, she had a pig 
that was bitten, too, if you please, by a viper — it was 
a red one, I think — right in the nose. You know 
how pigs always will go with their snouts to the 
ground ! And there was Madame Huchet a-weeping 
and a-wailing. ‘O ! my pig,’ she said, ‘my pig that 
was getting on so nice; there it is done for! And 


Good Me;n and Wome;n. 


133 


isn’t it a shame? You could see the beast fattening 
before your very eyes.’ ‘La Huchet,’ I said to her, 
‘you must kill the vermin.’ She did what I told her, 
and the poison didn’t work any more, and she saved 
her pig; and they only just killed it Friday, and are 
making blood-pudding this minute.” 

“And is that your only remedy?” said Marguer- 
ite to Granny Rigollet, laughing. 

“Yes, Mamzelle. You only need one to cure 
with. That’s the only one I’ve got, but it’s a mighty 
good one. Just try it, and you will see.” 

“And how much do I owe you?” 

“Two farthings, Mamzelle, for telling you my 
secret, and six farthings more if I kill the snake.” 

As we had no farthings about us, we gave the old 
woman two sous, and continued our way to Mesnil. 
The salts, moreover, had taken effect. Three days 
later Tom was on his feet once more. The venom, 
it seemed, had stopped “working.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


AUNT DUMOUUIN'S THURSDAYS. 

F ROM time immemorial my aunt had given a 
dinner on Thursdays to which she invited a few 
old friends living in the neighborhood. They sat 
down to dinner at six o’clock in summer, at five in 
winter, and after the repast, which lasted until half- 
past six or half-past seven, according to the season, 
they played whist, “boston,” or ecarte, or — and this 
I liked the best — they would gather around the pas- 
tor of Saint-Laurent, to listen to the tales, a store of 
which he had collected in the course of his long 
and varied experience. At half-past nine, with the 
gravity of a university rector, followed by the four 
faculties, old Rose majestically entered the drawing- 
room, and proceeded to serve the tea, whilst Cillette 
and Lexis, stumbling behind her, moved hither and 
thither, the boy bearing a bottle of old rum and his 
sister carrying a pyramid of cakes. Soon after tea, 
the company dispersed until the following Thurs- 
day, when they would assemble again without fur- 
ther invitation. The last invitation must have been 
at least ten years old, as the foundation was one of 
remote antiquity. My aunt, with this exception, 
received no company, nor did she ever make visits; 
134 


Aunt Dumouun's Thursdays. 135 

but not for the world would she have departed from 
this ancient and honorable custom. 

Permit me to present to you the guests — always 
the same — who, week after week, were to be seen 
at the table of Mademoiselle Dumoulin. Honor to 
whom honor is due. I will begin with our excellent 
pastor, the Abbe Aubry, who had never missed a 
single Thursday since 1807, which was the authen- 
tic date of the founding of this time-honored institu- 
tion. This was the year he became pastor of the 
parish. One of his assistants, sometimes Abbe 
Berteaux, sometimes Abbe Denis, accompanied him 
as a rule. It was very seldom that all three came. 
Abbe Aubry, very wisely, wanted to be certain that 
his parishioners could always find a priest at the 
rectory in case of necessity. 

About half an hour before dinner time, the an- 
tique vehicle of the presbytery, drawn by old Coco, 
stopped quietly before the door, and while Lexis 
disposed of the horse and carriage, the two gentle- 
men stepped into the hall, where, without ceremony, 
they finished saying their breviaries, my aunt and 
Rose being meantime busy with the final prepara- 
tions. 

Ten minutes later (each guest arrived at a certain 
hour with mathematical precision), Dr. Durand, 
mounted upon his grey mare, cantered gently up 
the avenue of chestnut trees. After taking his 
mount to the stable and personally providing for her 
necessities, he betook himself to the garden, where 


136 


Brother and Sister. 


he walked up and down, perfectly at home, smoking 
his pipe. 

And now appears an old family barouche, hitched 
to two plough-horses and driven by a farmhand 
transformed for the occasion into a coachman. This 
is the equipage of Maitre Hardy, the notary, whom 
I now have the honor to present together with his 
wife and his daughter, Mademoiselle Adele, the 
fashionables of Saint-Laurent. Our company is 
now almost complete. We await the brothers 
Ducoudray, two “old young men/’ who danced 
most elegantly, it seems, some sixty years ago. They 
arrived at Mesnil with Mademoiselle Agathe, their 
housekeeper, in a fine chariot drawn by a superb 
mule, and driven by “Zidore” (Isidore), their little 
house-boy, a child of twelve or thirteen years, whom 
his masters, priding themselves on their elegance, 
had arrayed in yellow livery with irresistible effect. 

Lexis detested Zidore, first of all, because he 
came from the right bank of the river, and also 
because this elegant young man assumed an air of 
superiority toward him; but, above all, because 
Zidore had had the audacity to propose that he 
serve at dinner in the place of Lexis. Undoubtedly 
he would have acquitted himself more creditably 
than the dull and clumsy scion of the house of 
Chopin, but imagine the discredit which would have 
been cast upon the whole country-side if one of those 
“good-for-nothing Nantes people” had dictated to 
us ! And so the offer of the poor boy had been re- 


Aunt Dumouuin’s Thursdays. 137 

jected with disdain, and, as was only just, he was 
relegated to the lower end of the kitchen table, 
when the servants came to have their dinner. 

The unfortunate child must have passed a stupid 
evening on that occasion, for no one would talk 
with him or even answer his questions. Never was 
“Coventry” more strict. But, then, why did he 
come from the other side of the river? Why did 
he wear a yellow coat, and, above all, why did he 
put on the airs of a duke? Cillette, it must be 
confessed, was a bit smitten by the elegance and 
fine appearance of Monsieur Zidore, but her brother 
gave her distinctly to understand that “patriotism” 
demanded that she conceal her admiration. 

But here we are enlarging upon Isidore and for- 
getting his masters. 

When the chariot came to within two or three 
hundred yards of the house, the boy drew up the 
mule at a turn in the avenue, and the two gentle- 
men, who were extremely ceremonious, prepared, 
with the assistance of Mademoiselle Agathe, to put 
the finishing touches to their toilets. 

Hidden behind a great chestnut tree, I was one 
day the indiscreet witness of this curious perform- 
ance, which made me laugh till I cried, and which 
I straightway described to Marguerite. 

The two old gentlemen — the elder was eighty- 
seven, his brother eighty-three — took off their coats 
and arrayed themselves in regulation swallow-tails. 
Then, removing their slippers, they put on, not 


138 


Brother and Sister. 


without considerable difficulty, brilliant patent- 
leathers, and drew over their wrinkled hands corn- 
colored gloves of the most approved shade. But 
I was about to forget the most interesting detail. 
When their toilet was about completed, Mademoi- 
selle Agathe handed to each gentleman a beautiful 
little morocco case, which enclosed a set of false 
teeth of the very latest make. Ducoudray aine 
and Ducoudray cadet delicately adjusted the ma- 
chinery to their ancient jaws, and, somewhat reju- 
venated by this bath of youth, they again took their 
places in the carriage, prepared to make a solemn 
entrance into the drawing-room at Mesnil. Zidore 
leapt to his seat, and the mule, roused by a good 
crack of the whip, dashed up the few remaining 
yards of the avenue in fine style. 

The elder brother stepped first from the carriage 
(exactly the same ceremony was observed every 
Thursday) and presented to my aunt a bouquet of 
roses, violets, heather, or forget-me-nots, according 
to the season; while the younger, who was a poet, 
offered with a significant smile some verses — always 
a sonnet — sometimes to my aunt, who invariably 
put them in her pocket, and never referred to them 
again, and sometimes to Marguerite, who was very 
much embarrassed by the attention, as she could not 
equivocate, and yet would have liked to give the 
old man pleasure. Then, again, the old gentleman 
would present his poem to the notary’s lady, the 
colossal Madame Hardy, who used it for a fan dur- 


Aunt Dumoudin's Thursdays. 139 

ing dinner. Even Mademoiselle Adele was some- 
times the recipient of the favor, in which case she 
blushed with pleasure, and carefully preserved the 
sonnet in her scrap-book, after paying the highest 
compliments to the author. 

But all the guests have arrived, and it is now time 
for dinner. Old Rose, jealous of her reputation as 
a cook, surpassed herself on Thursdays. The menu 
was carefully prepared, but there was. little variety. 
We generally had vermicelli soup, partridges with 
cabbage, roast hare, game pie, vegetables from the 
garden, fruit and cakes, the whole washed down 
with the delicious wine of Anjou. On special days 
there would be solemnly placed upon the table a 
bottle of the famous wine of Charles X., (1825), 
in which all drank the king’s health except the doc- 
tor, who was a rabid Republican, and always pro- 
tested — although his convictions did not carry him 
so far as to make him refuse the reactionary liquor. 
Outside of the hunting season, partridge gave place 
to chicken, and hare to beef or mutton. 

After dinner the lords of creation and my aunt 
drank a glass of cognac, while the weaker sex and 
myself moistened our lips with a drop of inoffensive 
anisette. 

As I had no companion of my own age, I must 
have found the dinner and the evening which fol- 
lowed stupid indeed, were it not that kind Provi- 
dence had made me very observant. Besides, it 
must be acknowledged that our guests were most 


140 


Brother and Sister. 


interesting subjects for study. Unconsciously they 
posed before me, week after week, for years, and I 
ended by knowing them through and through . 1 

What a curious type Maitre Hardy was, the no- 
tary of Saint-Laurent! Stiff, cold, and formal, 
above the excitement of revolutions (valuable qual- 
ity in these our days!), I imagine that Maitre 
Hardy never either laughed or wept. One might 
well speculate as to whether the notary of Saint- 
Laurent had ever been young, or whether he had 
not rather come into the world at the prosaic age of 
five-and-forty. He spoke of the uprisings of June 
and of the bloodshed in the streets of Paris as im- 
perturbably as he would draw up a marriage con- 
tract, or execute a will. 

With unalterable patience, and without the least 
sign of annoyance, he bore with the variable moods 
of Madame Hardy, who was as lively and impetu- 
ous as he himself was calm and frigid. 

In other respects, the pair were united and in 
perfect accord, but, in order to bear with one an- 
other, both must have had that amount of patience 
which, to use the phrase of Buffon, “borders upon 
genius.” 

Maitre Hardy related on more than one occasion, 
in his impenetrable manner, an adventure of his 
youth, which will, I think, give an adequate idea of 
the man. You know those old family stories, which 

x It is necessary to repeat that all the proper names occurring in 
this book are absolutely fictitious, with the exception of the names 
of a few characters of the Wars of .Vendee. 


Aunt Dumouuin's Thursdays. 141 

do service so often, and which every one knows by 
heart. The narrator alone, in most cases, forgets 
that he has told his tale over and over again, and 
fails to perceive the look of recognition which 
creeps over the countenance of his hearers, as they 
see their old acquaintance looming up over the 
horizon. 

But, to resume, Maitre Hardy was completing 
his law course at Poitiers (he must have been 
twenty-two or three at the time), when, one day, 
he made a bet of twenty-five thousand francs with 
one of his friends, that he would take to Paris by 
the high road eighteen hares, letting them run free, 
and without tying them up, night or day. 

The bet was accepted, and young Hardy set to 
work to carry out his plan. First of all, he trained 
carefully six dogs, whose duty it was to keep the 
hares together and head them in the right direction 
when they broke away. Then he spent six months 
training his eighteen little animals, in the fields and 
on the roads, first keeping them in leash and then 
gradually setting them free. One may imagine the 
endless pains it took to accustom those timid crea- 
tures to move together, not to be frightened by the 
carts and wagons which they encountered, and to 
pass to the right or left, to stop and start again at 
the word of command. At last, after six months 
of rehearsing, he set out on the highway from Bor- 
deaux to Paris. Two dogs, side by side, followed 
the long-eared battalion, two others served as flank 


142 


Brother and Sister. 


escorts, and, finally, two mastiffs of very respectable 
size and strength formed the advance guard, and 
undertook to ward off those of their kind whose 
presence was likely to throw the caravan into con- 
fusion. Placide himself brought up the rear, watch- 
ing the whole, anticipating every possible mishap, 
and directing the dogs by whistling. 

In spite of these precautions, he was a hundred 
times on the point of losing his bet. Now it would 
be a blockade of carts, impossible to foresee in 
time, which would throw the wild troop into alarm 
and confusion; then they would meet unexpectedly 
with a herd of cattle or sheep, or mischievous 
school-boys, standing at a safe distance, would 
throw stones into the midst of the ranks, or in a 
hundred other ways an unexpected panic was pro- 
duced, which scattered the hares to the four winds. 
Often it took hours, sometimes days, to gather them 
together again and resume the march. Any one but 
Placide would have abandoned the attempt, even at 
the cost of twenty-five thousand francs. But, as we 
have remarked, Providence had endowed him with 
incomparable patience, which obstacles served but to 
strengthen. He at last had the satisfaction, on Au- 
gust the first, 1824, of entering Paris with his eight- 
een hares, surrounded by the faithful dogs that had 
escorted them on the journey, amidst the indescrib- 
able enthusiasm of the spectators. 

The loser, who had noted carefully the tactics and 
procedure of young Hardy during the trip, now gave 


Aunt Dumouuin's Thursdays. 


143 


free expression to his admiration, and invited his 
fortunate challenger, together with their common 
friends, to a grand dinner at the best restaurant in 
Paris. The poor hares formed the contents of an 
enormous pasty, which, after being tasted, was gen- 
erously given over to the intelligent dogs, who had 
been such faithful guides. It was only just, for to 
them belonged a good portion of the glory. 

At the end of the banquet, the young man who had 
lost his bet handed over to his opponent then and 
there the twenty-five notes of a thousand francs each, 
which were to be the foundation of his fortune. On 
that day Placide Hardy espoused fame, and on the 
rebound, Mademoiselle Sidonie. All the newspapers, 
liberal and conservative, resounded with his praises, 
and for a whole week through this widespread pub- 
licity he attracted much attention. Fond of adven- 
ture, and a lover of the marvellous, Mademoiselle 

Sidonie N become possessed with the idea that 

here was the husband of her dreams. Friends 
brought about a meeting, and relations were estab- 
lished between the two families. The young people 
were congenial, and Mademoiselle Sidonie, blinded 
by her lively imagination, did not perceive that her 
admirer, while possessed of very estimable qualities, 
was absolutely deficient in those with which she gra- 
tuitously endowed him. She hurried matters to such 
good purpose, that, a fortnight after their first meet- 
ing, the marriage of the pair was celebrated. The 
bride added two hundred thousand francs to the 


144 


Brother and Sister. 


modest nest-egg provided by the rabbits for their 
ungrateful master, so that young Hardy was at once 
in a position to buy the legal practice of Saint-Lau- 
rent, which was at that time for sale. For thirty 
years he had managed it with the same calm, undis- 
turbed perseverance with which he had trained his 
hares, and, as patience is the first virtue necessary 
to the lawyer, his business was extremely successful. 

As for poor Sidonie, time had stripped her of her 
illusions, and, although she sincerely loved her hus- 
band, she was forever proclaiming that she was a 
martyr, and that, for a woman with ideals, it was 
indescribable suffering to be tied for life to a man 
who was indifferent to all but the practical, as was 
her husband. She retailed her woes at the dinner- 
table every Thursday, and wound up by imploring 
her daughter to think well before casting in her lot 
for life with that of any man. 

Mademoiselle Adele, who was dying to get mar- 
ried, would answer in a lively manner that she had 
plenty of time to think about the matter, that she 
was in no such hurry as were some people whom she 
might mention, and that, moreover, it was possible 
that she might never be willing to change her state 
of life, etc. This did not prevent her being horribly 
jealous of Marguerite, who had had ten or twelve 
offers in the past year, to all of which she had replied 
that she was not thinking of marrying for the pres- 
ent. Adele, let it be said, had yet to note the first ad- 
vances of a suitor. 


Aunt Dumouuin's Thursdays. 145 

Whenever she came to Mesnil, she plied my sister 
with questions : “Monsieur So-and-so was here the 
other day, I know. I suppose it was to ask your 
aunt’s permission to propose? The Comtesse de 
Saint- Julien stayed a whole hour at the rectory yes- 
terday. I am quite sure she was asking Abbe 
Aubry to persuade you to marry her son. Why don’t 
you accept him ? Are you so happy here at Mesnil ? 
If I were you, I would be bored to death.” 

Marguerite had to summon all her patience and 
charity in order to bear with the persistence of the 
young girl. “Why,” she would ask gently, “do you 
come to me with all these questions? My aunt is 
the one to go to for that sort of information.” 

Then Adele would get angry, and accuse my sister 
of being proud, of being vain of her knowledge 
and of her accomplishments, of despising her equals, 
of wishing to pass for a saint so she might marry 
a duke or a marquis — and so on ad infinitum . 

This unfortunate young woman seemed to have a 
gift for making herself disagreeable to everybody. 
She was the very type and pattern of the domestic 
tyrant, so harsh and exacting on every little point 
that her father and mother could never keep their 
servants for any length of time. The year before 
her daughter’s marriage, Madame Hardy changed 
her maid six times. It was not altogether Adele’s 
fault either. She had been very badly brought up. 

I fairly detested her, because she was so cruel to 
animals. Marguerite, it may be remembered, had 


10 


146 


Brother and Sister. 


checked that fault in me, and ever afterwards I re- 
fused to tolerate it in others. 

One fine day in summer, a note was brought over 
to Mesnil from Adele, asking Marguerite if she 
might borrow the horse and phaeton for an expedi- 
tion which she proposed to make to a neighboring 
point. My sister was much annoyed by the request, 
but not knowing how to refuse she made the best of 
it, and gave Alexis instructions to harness Fanfan 
and take him over to the lawyer’s house. Alexis had 
no sooner driven off than she said, “I wish I had re- 
fused. Adele is a good girl, but she has not a par- 
ticle of common sense.” 

That evening at nine o’clock Fanfan was sent 
back in a most deplorable state. He could scarcely 
stand, and we were afraid we would lose him. With 
care, however, we brought him round, and before 
long he was once more in good condition. Later 
we learned from the maid who had gone with her 
that the hair-brained Adele had driven the poor 
beast sixty miles with scarcely any rest at all. Mar- 
guerite resolved to lend Fanfan no more, no matter 
how urgent the request, and she even warned Alexis 
never under any pretext to lend him to Mademoiselle 
Hardy during her absence. 

Let me add, in order to dispose once for all of 
Adele, that she finally succeeded in marrying a mar- 
quis, though his title was of doubtful validity. His 
name was Arthur de Mendoza y Fuegos. (She had 
always aspired to the nobility!) This personage was 


Aunt Dumouuin's Thursdays. 147 

neither more nor less than an adventurer, and when 
he had run through his wife’s fortune, he departed 
for America in the company of another woman, and 
was never heard of again. Poor Adele returned to 
her parents more embittered, jealous, and discon- 
tented than ever. There was, to be sure, some con- 
solation for her in the fact that for the remainder of 
her days she rejoiced in the sonorous title of Mar- 
quise de Mendoza y Fuegos, but this advantage did 
not, I am certain, console the notary, her father, for 
the loss of his good hard cash. 

But let us return to our guests. 

The “little Ducoudrays,” as they were generally 
called, were unusual types. The elder, Antoine, 
whom his brother always addressed respectfully as 
“Ducoudray,” enjoyed, in spite of his extreme age, 
the full possession of his mental faculties. His 
health was comparatively good, but he stooped very 
much when he walked, his head dropping nearly to 
the level of his waist. He spoke very deliberately, 
in a quavering voice, chopping off each syllable. 
Monsieur Auguste, the younger, was a little old man 
of eighty-three, wizened, but straight as a broom- 
stick. He had a sort of nervous affection, which 
caused his head and limbs to shake, and made his 
speech one continuous tremolo. 

The elder Ducoudray nearly always remained 
seated, his head and neck swathed in flannels and 
mufflers, while his brother circled convulsively 
about his chair, his little quivering head causing the 


148 


Brother and Sister. 


immense stovepipe which served him as headgear to 
vibrate in a truly alarming manner. 

Nothing could be more unique than the conversa- 
tion of these two old men, who were so devoted to 
one another that they could not be happy apart. 

One day, being in the adjoining room, I overheard 
what they were saying, and made good use of it 
afterwards, enfant terrible that I was. The older 
Ducoudray was asking his brother Auguste about 
the visit to Angers which he made that morning. 

“Where did you go, Auguste?” queried the old 
man, in his drawling voice, interrupted by little 
coughs. 

“To Angers,” exclaimed the explosive falsetto of 
Monsieur Auguste. “I walked through the Place du 
Pelican and passed the house of Mesdemoiselles 
Minet.” 

This name, it seems, awoke tender memories in 
the breast of the older man. 

“Ah!” he replied in mournful tones, “Mesdemoi- 
selles Minet ! They were charming creatures, charm- 
ing! They wore fresh flowers in their hair and on 
their gowns. They were charming! It was in 
1802.” Then after a pause, “Do you remember, 
Auguste?” 

“Heavens, Ducoudray! Do I remember!” trum- 
peted forth the younger man. 

Then his brother repeated several times, “They 
were charming. Charming. That was in 1802.” 

The Ducoudrays, the elder especially, prided them- 


Aunt DumouIvIn's Thursdays. 


149 


selves on being literary connoisseurs, and in spite of 
the revolutions, they continued to be faithful admir- 
ers of the great age. La Bruyere was the favorite 
author of Monsieur Antoine, his pet volume of 
which he kept always within reach. One day Mad- 
emoiselle Agathe, their housekeeper, was putting 
her master’s room in order when she came across a 
copy of the Carac teres, and read several passages, 
which, it appears, scandalized her exceedingly. She 
threw the book into the fire immediately, and when 
the old gentleman, after his little walk in the garden, 
searched in vain for his beloved book, and asked the 
housekeeper where she had put it, Mademoiselle 
Agathe’s manner was so innocent that it was impos- 
sible to suspect her. 

The same afternoon Marguerite went to see our 
venerable friends, and the housekeeper found an op- 
portunity of confiding in her. 

“Would you believe it, Mamzelle,” she said in 
indignation, “I found an abominable book on Mon- 
sieur Ducoudray’s table this morning. Caracteres , 
by a certain Labourdiniere. Perfectly horrid! I 
threw it in the fire, and he has been looking for it 
ever since.” 

Marguerite assured the respectable woman that 
she was alarmed without reason. She did not betray 
the confidence, but not long afterwards she sent as a 
present to Monsieur Ducoudray an edition of La 
Bruyere in large print, a delicate attention which 
touched our old friend very much. 


150 


Brother and Sister. 


And now we must pass on to Dr. Durand. He 
was a plant of the soil. His father and mother lived 
at Saint-Florent-le-Vieil before the great Revolu- 
tion, and knew well my aunt’s parents, Monsieur 
and Madame Dumoulin, of whom I spoke at the out- 
set of these memoirs. Monsieur and Madame Du- 
rand were ardent Royalists, like most of the inhabi- 
tants of the country, and it was in bitter sorrow 
that they saw their son Francois embrace enthusias- 
tically the cause of the Revolutionists. In 1793, 
when neighbors, friends and kinsmen were all join- 
ing the ranks of the Catholic and royal army, Fran- 
cois went off to Angers, where he tendered his ser- 
vices to the Republic. At the same time he had no 
desire to shed the blood of his countrymen in Ven- 
dee, so he succeeded in being sent to the frontiers, 
where he fought the foreign foe. He took part in 
the principal campaigns of the Republic and of the 
Empire. In 1812 his wounds and ill-health con- 
tracted in the service forced him to resign. He had 
just reached the grade of Commandant. As his for- 
tune was modest in the extreme, and he had a wife 
and children to support, he managed, by a great ef- 
fort, to finish the course in medicine which he had 
begun as a young man, and established himself at 
Saint-Laurent, where, in spite of his reputation as a 
Revolutionist, he built up a practice sufficient for the 
needs of his family. Before long he lost his wife 
and his four children. But, as he loved his profes- 
sion, he continued to practise, although his pension 
would have sufficed for his support. 


Aunt Dumoulin's Thursdays. 


151 


My aunt, while she hated the doctors principles, 
retained her affection for the old friend of her child- 
hood, and it was most amusing to see these two sur- 
vivors of by-gone days engage in violent discussions 
in the course of which each anathematized the prin- 
ciples defended by the other. My aunt would hurl 
at Frangois Durand the tender epithets of “old ras- 
cal” and “Republican dog,” while the doctor, fed in 
his youth upon the writings of Voltaire and Rous- 
seau, saluted his dear friend by the gallant titles of 
“bigot,” “visionary,” “fanatic,” and similar terms. 
Each week they parted vowing never to meet again, 
but the ensuing Thursday found them peaceably 
seated in the dining-room at Mesnil. 

Doctor Durand was devoted to Marguerite, whom 
he called, in fun, his assistant. The truth is that she 
was a dangerous rival, but he was not jealous, for 
all that, for he loved her as his own daughter. My 
sister tried more than once to induce him to return 
to the practise of his religion, but he would shake 
his head and say, “Tut, tut, my little Guiguitte. A 
good deal of water will flow under the bridge of the 
Gemme before you get me into a confessional.” 

He was not impious. He believed in God and 
spoke His name with reverence, but his ignorance 
was something incredible. One day he undertook 
to prove to Marguerite that our Lord Jesus Christ 
had merely reproduced the teachings of Mahomet. 
Of course she had no trouble in cornering him, 
which caused him no little chagrin. 


152 


Brother and Sister. 


It is unnecessary to present the pastor of Saint- 
Laurent, since we have already made his acquaint- 
ance. Ordained priest at twenty-three years of age, 
in 1793, he was at once appointed assistant in the 
little parish of Saint- Jean-les-Douves, in the district 
of Cholet. He followed the Catholic and royal army 
throughout the campaign in Vendee and beyond the 
Loire, hearing confessions, preaching, marrying, cel- 
ebrating the Holy Sacrifice in the depths of the forest 
and in caves, absolving the wounded in the midst 
of shot and shell, everywhere administering, at the 
peril of his life, the consolations of religion. After 
the pacification of the provinces of the West, he re- 
turned to his diocese and was made pastor of Saint- 
Laurent. For fifty years he had served that obscure 
parish, without any desire of leaving it, although the 
Bishops who had succeeded one another in the see of 
Angers had pressed him to assume a charge more in 
accordance with his abilities. He was adored by his 
parishioners, to whom he was really a father. He 
had known them from their earliest childhood, had 
baptized them, prepared them for the Sacraments, 
blessed their marriages and now watched over the 
spiritual interests of their children. We often got 
him to talk on Thursday evenings after dinner about 
the great and terrible events which he had witnessed 
in the early days of his priesthood. He spoke of 
them freely, always, however, keeping in the back- 
ground the part, often an heroic one, which he him- 
self played in the history of those gloomy times. 


Aunt Dumouuin's Thursdays. 153 

I will let him relate in his own words some of the 
tales which used to make the long winter evenings 
pass so quickly for us. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


the: whiter and th£ blue:s. 

<*jj_JOW many acts of heroism I might put on rec- 
■ ■ ord,” said Abbe Aubry, “if I only had the 
time and talent to set down my recollections. How 
many bright examples of faith, of charity, and of 
Christian fortitude I have witnessed! 

“I knew well the famous Pierre Bibard of the 
town of Tessoualle, 1 who entered the army at the 
very outset of the insurrection. He fought like a 
lion in the first engagement at Eontenay, on May 13, 
1793, and his courage carried him so far in advance 
that, covered with wounds, he fell into the hands of 
the enemy. The victorious Blues bore him off to 
Eontenay, and threw him into prison. Eor two weeks 
the Vendean suffered a veritable martyrdom. The 
soldier who had him in charge treated him with the 
utmost cruelty, and abused him from morning until 
night, without the least regard for the pitiable condi- 
tion to which his wounds had reduced him. While 
the second battle of Eontenay was going on, May 
25th, this miserable .wretch, unworthy of the name 

lr The Marquise de la Roche jaquelein, Cretineau-Joly, and al- 
most all the historians of the war of Vendee have recorded this 
incident. 


154 


The Whites and the Beues. 


155 


of soldier, occupied himself by jabbing at the neck 
and breast of his prisoner with his bayonet and 
threatening to kill him if the ‘brigands’ should be 
victorious. Meantime the cannon roared at the very 
gates of the city, and the Royalists steadily gained 
ground. The guard went to the window to see what 
progress the enemy was making, and thoughtlessly 
left his gun within reach of the prisoner. Bibard 
saw his opportunity, and crawling softly toward the 
weapon of the Blue, promptly seized it, and leveled it 
at his jailor, saying coolly, ‘If you move you are a 
dead man.’ The terrified Republican did not dare to 
budge from his position, and Bibard succeeded in 
holding him at bay until the arrival of the Royalists, 
who rushed to the prison to release their captive com- 
rades. 

“Infuriated by the recent massacres committed 
by the Republican soldiers, the peasants seized the 
Blue and dragged him out to be shot/ in spite of the 
protests of Bibard. To please their comrade, how- 
ever, they agreed to grant him an hour’s respite. 

“Meantime Pierre, whose desire was to save the 
man at all costs, sent to the commanding generals of 
the forces of Vendee, begging them to come to him. 
Delighted to hear that the brave Bibard, whom they 
knew well, was still alive, Henri de la Rochejaque- 
lein d’Elbee, and Stofflet went at once to see him, 

1 The Vendeans very rarely indulged in reprisals. They almost 
always gave quarter to their enemies even when these latter had, by 
wholesale slaughter and other horrible crimes, richly deserved 
shooting. 


156 


Brother and Sister. 


and praised him for the courage he had shown on 
the battlefield. 

“ ‘What do you want as reward ?’ asked d’Elbee. 

“ ‘The pardon of my jailor/ was the prompt reply. 

“So the pardon was granted at once and the Blue 
set at liberty. 

“When Monsieur Henri 1 heard from his men of 
the cruel treatment which Bibard had received from 
the enemy, he sought him out again, embraced him, 
and said, ‘I would shed my blood willingly rather 
than have you act otherwise than you did to-day. 
Perhaps the Republicans will at last realize how they 
wrong us when they treat us as outlaws, and begin 
to believe that it is only for religion and for the king 
that we fight/ 

“Then there was Ripoche/ , continued Abbe Au- 
bry. In him there were combined a simplicity and 
generosity of soul which approach the sublime. I 
will only touch upon his story, for it is well known 
throughout the country . 2 

“Ripoche was a poor wood-cutter, who earned his 
daily bread, and that of his little ones, by hard and 
continuous labor. The Blues surprised him one day, 
and dragged him to a Calvary , 3 intending to shoot 
him there. The poor man begged them, in the name 

1 It was by this name that their leader, Monsieur Henri de la 
Rochejaquelein, was familiarly known to the peasants. 

2 The Rev. Father Delaporte, S. J., has commemorated in a beau- 
tiful poem. La Croix du Bas-Briace, the sublime death of Ripoche. 
It may be found in Recits et Legendes, published by Retaux, rue 
Bonaparte, Paris. 

3 Wayside crucifix. (Translator’s note.) 


The Whites and the Beues. 


157 


of Christ dying upon the cross, to spare his life for 
the sake of his wife and children. 

“ ‘You can save your life/ said the leader of the 
squad, ‘if you will chop down this cross/ 

“ ‘Loose me, then/ 'cried Ripoche, after thinking 
a moment. 

“At a sign from the one in command, he was set 
free. Instantly the Vendean seized his axe, and, set- 
ting his back against the Calvary, he shouted : ‘Come 
on, then, enemies of God!’ 

“The Blues rushed upon brave Ripoche with cries 
of rage, but he, swinging his axe, broke the force of 
the pikes and bayonets thrust at his breast, at the 
same time dealing terrible blows right and left with 
deadly effect upon the Republicans. Eight dead 
Blues lay around him, but by this time he himself 
was covered with wounds and his blood ran in 
streams. 

“ ‘Give up, brigand/ yelled the Blues. 

“ ‘Give me back my God,’ replied the hero, and 
falling at the foot of the cross, he pressed his dying 
lips to the sign of his Redemption, and breathed 
forth his soul. 

“Critics admire a famous passage in the Iliad,” 
Abbe Aubry said to us, “in which the poet describes 
Hector, the Trojan hero, as refusing to remove his 
helmet and drink the noble wine brought by the queen 
mother, Hecuba, because he would not seek refresh- 
ment himself while his comrades still labored in the 
fierce combat. It is indeed full of beauty and pathos, 


158 


Brother and Sister. 


but I have known the young men of our Vendee 
to do the same, only no great poet has immortalized 
their deeds . 1 

“Charles and Etienne Leroux, aged eighteen and 
twenty years, of the farm called Ee Erene, in Saint- 
Jean-les-Douves — I knew them both well — 2 came 
back to their home one day, worn out after thirty- 
six hours of fighting and forced marches. Their 
mother and sisters, who had not known whether they 
were dead or alive, threw themselves into their arms 
and wept for joy. 

“ ‘They must be terribly hungry, poor fellows/ 
said their mother, and the whole family set to work 
to wait on them. The table was spread with the best 
the house afforded, the rare native wine, a great loaf 
of fresh bread, delicate rashers of bacon and a deli- 
cious cabbage soup, which had been simmering for 
hours, and had permeated the whole house with its 
odor. Seated by the fireside, the two youths already 
tasted in anticipation the welcome meal which would 
renew their strength and courage. 

“Suddenly the sound of cannon and of musket- 


iWhen shall a truly great poet arise from among us to cele- 
brate that marvelous epoch which begins with the conscription 
at Saint- Florent, and closes amid the gloom of Savenay? 
Theodore Botrel, our Christian bard, Father' Delaporte and 
others have in very beautiful verse described particular episodes 
of those heroic times; the death of Bonchamp, the “Pater 
noster” of d’Elb6e, the martyrdom of Ripoche, etc. But it is 
not only scattered incidents, but the “War of Giants” as a whole 
that must be sung. 

2 Abb6 Deniau in La Guerre de la Vendee cites a similar act on 
the part of a peasant called Marchand. 


The Whites and The BeuES. 


159 


shots came to their ears, mingled with distant shouts, 
‘To arms, boys, to arms! The Blues! To arms! 
For religion and the king !’ 

“Charles and Etienne had not yet tasted the steam- 
ing broth before them. Electrified by the smell of 
powder, they leaped to their guns, stuffed their pock- 
ets with cartridges, kissed mother and sisters, who 
sought to detain them. ‘We have no timer they 
shouted. ‘Our men are dying yonder !’ and they shot 
forth in the direction from which the sound of fight- 
ing came. 

“‘Chariot! Tiennot!’ cried their sisters, sobbing; 
‘come back, boys, you’ve not had a bite to eat !’ 

“But the mother, calm and resigned, although 
tears stole down her cheeks, said, ‘Let them go. It 
is their duty, and duty is the voice of God!’ 

“The two brave fellows came home no more.” 

“Tell us about the women of Vendee,” Marguerite 
said one evening to the good priest. “It strikes me 
that the historians of the great war give them only 
passing notice. If the men were heroes, I am certain 
that the women were not far behind them in faith, 
courage and devotion.” 

“You are right, my child,” said Abbe Aubry. 
“The women were marvels during that terrible year, 
and I myself beheld many notable examples of self- 
sacrifice and Christian charity. 

“During the first battle of Torfou, the troops from 
Basse-Vendee, disheartened by the repeated reverses 
of the preceding days, gave way before the army of 


160 


Brother and Sister. 


Mayence, which was, as you know, made up of the 
best soldiers of the Republic, and commanded by her 
most efficient officers. The precipitous flight of 
Charette’s men threatened to involve the entire army 
in a general rout. At this juncture the women, who 
had been praying in the church at Torfou, hearing 
that the Royalists were retreating, poured out of the 
sacred edifice in a body, and seizing scythes, sickles, 
pitch-forks, anything they could lay their hands on, 
threw themselves with irresistible force against the 
enemy. 

“ ‘Run, cowards !’ they shouted to their retreating 
countrymen. ‘We will go ourselves, and show you 
how to die!’ 

“The sight of sisters, wives and daughters march- 
ing on to meet the death they dared not face, shamed 
the men of Vendee. They came to a halt. The in- 
trepid Charette, whose uniform had been pierced by 
no less than seven bullets, rallied his men, and led 
them once more to the charge. The armies of Anjou 
and Bas-Poitou followed suit, and soon the attack 
was renewed all along the line. Torfou was one of 
the most glorious victories won by our arms, and 
we ought openly to proclaim that had it not been for 
the courage of their women, the Royalists would 
have lost the day. 

“It was not often, however, that the women of 
Vendee joined the combatants. There were, indeed, 
notable exceptions of whom it would be pleasant to 
speak, were it not, my dears, that I am afraid of 


The: Whiter and the: Bdu£S. 


161 


hurting the modesty of your aunt, my valiant friend ; 
but, as a rule, the women of Vendee confined them- 
selves to the sphere for which Providence designed 
their sex. During the combat they prayed the God 
of armies to yield the victory to their fathers, sons 
and husbands, and, the battle over, they prayed for 
the souls who had appeared before God’s judgment- 
seat that day. They tended and encouraged the 
wounded, buried the dead, carried provisions and re- 
freshments to the soldiers, and by their unfailing 
devotion renewed the faltering strength and failing 
spirits of all. It seems to me I can still hear the beau- 
tiful hymn they used to sing when their men marched 
to the front. 

Je mets ma confiance, 

Vierge, en votre secours; 

Servez-moi de defense, 

Prenez soin de mes jours; 

Et quand ma derniere heure 
Viendra fixer mon sort, 

Obtenez que je meure 
De la plus sainte mort! 

Je mets ma confiance . . . , etc . 1 

“This was the favorite hymn of the women of 
Vendee. It served them alike in victory and defeat. 

1 Blessed Virgin, in thy power 
All my confidence I rest. 

Be my help in danger’s hour, 

Guard my life by foes oppressed. 

And when that dread day is nigh, 

On which my fate depends, O deign 
To pray for me that I may die 
A holy death, and heaven attain! 


11 


162 


Brother and Sister. 


They sang it at Nantes in the prisons of Le Bouffay 
and the magazine where the ferocity of Carrier 
heaped up victims by the thousands. They chanted 
it to help them face death bravely in those horrible 
barges from which they were dropped into the Loire, 
or as they mounted, each in turn, the step of the scaf- 
fold, and the hymn only ended with the life of the 
last victim. I heard them myself — and I shall never 
forget it — I heard them singing this hymn one day 
when I had entered Nantes in disguise to try and 
visit the prisons. Standing at the foot of the scaf- 
fold I was able, without being detected, to give abso- 
lution to all the victims as they went to execution. 
Many of my own parishioners were among them. 
One of them recognized me as she passed. No one 
was looking our way at the moment, and she greeted 
me with a radiant smile. ‘Till we meet again/ she 
seemed to say. ‘Do not weep for us. We are on 
our way to heaven !’ 

Je mets ma confiance 

Vierge, en votre secours! 

“They celebrated their triumph in anticipation, as 
it were, like martyrs of the primitive Church, and the 
pious chant, begun amidst the horrors of their mar- 
tyrdom, was finished at the foot of the throne of our 
Lady, Help of Christians ! Ah ! children,” added the 
holy man, “I have never since been able to hear that 
hymn without shedding tears ! 

“After one battle a mother was told that her three 
sons had fallen. 


The Whites and the Blues. 163 

“ ‘Did they do their duty ?’ she asked simply. And 
when she was told that they died like brave men, 
facing the enemy and with the badge of the Sacred 
Heart on their breasts, she said, T give them back to 
God, who gave them to me to avenge His glory .’ 1 

“After the bloody battle of Cholet a young mother 
with four children learned that her husband, her sole 
support, had been killed. As she was weeping bit- 
terly, a friend said to her, ‘You may well weep, poor 
girl ! You have really lost everything you had in the 
world.’ 

“The brave-hearted Christian raised her head. 
‘No/ she exclaimed, ‘I have not lost everything. I 
still have God and the memory of my husband’s 
courage. It may be that I have a great deal of suf- 
fering to undergo in this life, but I hope to reach 
heaven with my children.’ 

“I can never forget a pathetic scene which oc- 
curred on the evening of the day of the battle of 
Torfou. Two young persons of my parish, Frangois 
Renaud and Jeanne Hubin, had been betrothed a few 
days before. Their parents had consented to the 
marriage, which was to take place after the war was 
over and the men had come home again. 

“A few hours before the beginning of the battle, 
which would be a desperate one as every one knew, 
Frangois came to say farewell to his beloved Jeanne. 

1 This was the expression of a peasant, a cousin of Cathe- 
lineau, when announcing the death of the general to the men of 
Vendee assembled outside the house where he died. “Cathe- 
lineau has yielded up his soul to God, who gave it to him to 
avenge His glory.” 


164 


Brother and Sister. 


“ ‘Perhaps I shall be killed/ he said, ‘and I wanted 
to see you once more/ 

“ ‘Are you prepared, Frangois/ said the good girl, 
‘are you ready to go before the presence of God ?’ 

“ ‘Yes, Jeanne/ replied the young man simply. 

“ ‘God be praised !’ she said. ‘If you die I will 
hope that we meet in heaven/ and, after a pause, 
‘as for me, I promise that if you do not come back, 
I will never belong to any one else. I will give my- 
self to the Good Lord and spend the rest of my life 
nursing the sick with the Sisters of La Sagesse at 
Saint-Laur ent-sur-Se vre.’ 

“ ‘I was going to ask you that/ said Frangois in 
his simple faith. ‘And now pray that I do my duty, 
and for the rest, we will come together in God’s pres- 
ence !’ 

“Four hours later the battle was won, and the 
army of Mayence was in retreat toward Nantes. 

“Jeanne had been praying during the whole time 
the fight lasted, and now there came running in 
search of her a young man of the parish, a great 
friend of Frangois. 

“ ‘Jeanne,’ the young peasant said, ‘he is mortally 
wounded, and we have laid him yonder under the 
trees. He told me he would like to say good-bye 
to you/ 

“The young girl hastened to the spot pointed out 
by the messenger. In a few moments she reached 
the wounded man, who was lying on a bed of heather 
already crimsoned with his blood. I was at that mo- 


The: Whites and the: Bhue:s. 165 

ment administering the Sacrament of Extreme Unc- 
tion, which he received with edifying faith. Jeanne 
knelt down, sobbing, to pray. When the ceremony 
was over, the dying man turned his eyes to the young 
girl. ‘Thank you for coming, Jeanne/ he said, with 
difficulty. T have a bullet in my breast, and I know 
I shall soon be gone. But you heard we won the 
fight ? I fought hard. I kept up with Monsieur de 
Lescure 1 the whole time. And now it’s all over. I 
have received the Sacraments, and I die in peace. But 
I have one thing to ask, Jeanne. Would you be 
willing before I die for us to be man and wife in the 
sight of God?’ 

“ ‘Yes, I am willing/ said Jeanne bravely. ‘And 
when you are gone I will do as I told you, and I will 
pray for you every day as long as I live/ 

“ ‘It is settled, then,’ said Frangois. Placing on 
Jeanne’s finger the ring he had provided for their 
wedding, he murmured, ‘Make haste. I feel I am 
going.’ 

“I got two of those present to act as witnesses, 
and, after hearing the vows of the young pair, I pro- 
nounced the nuptial benediction. A smile of hap- 
piness lit up the face of the dying man. He took his 
wife’s hand and said faintly, ‘Until we meet before 
God !’ A little later Frangois breathed forth his soul 
in the arms of his beloved Jeanne. 

“The young wife prepared for burial the body of 

1 The Marquis de Lescure by his bravery decided the battle of 
Torfou. 


166 


Brother and Sister. 


the dear husband, who had left her a widow on her 
wedding day. She took careful note of the place 
where the body was interred, in the hope of having 
the precious remains carried back, when the war was 
over, to their old home. Poor Jeanne! She could 
not then foresee that the merciless revolutionary 
hordes were soon to complete their infernal work, 
and that before many weeks had passed the whole of 
Vendee would be naught but a smoking mass of 
ruins. 

“The pious young girl remained faithful to the 
memory of her dear Francois, and as soon as circum- 
stances permitted, she entered the convent at Saint- 
Laurent-sur-Sevres, there to consecrate the remain- 
der of her days to God in prayer and works of mercy. 
I myself had the privilege of giving her the veil. 

“And now I will give you another instance of for- 
titude. What would you say to a mere child sub- 
mitting to being cut to pieces by sabres rather than 
reveal the hiding-place of some soldiers of Vendee? 

“Marie Papin, a young girl of fifteen, living in the 
village of N — , was one day carrying provisions to 
some wounded soldiers who had been safely hidden 
in the midst of a field of broom . 1 

“Surprised by some Republican soldiers, Marie 
was taken before the officer commanding the detach- 

1 This incident is recorded by Father Deniau in his work en- 
titled, La Guerre de la Vendde. Don Chamard in Les Saints d’ 
Anjou relates a similar anecdote. A poor boy of Saint Florent al T 
lowed his limbs to be severed one by one from his body rather than 
betray a young deacon of whom the Blues were in search and 
whom they intended to kill, 


The Whites and the Beues. 167 

ment, who demanded that she tell whom the food 
was for. 

“ ‘For some poor hungry men/ she replied. 

“ ‘Where are they ?’ 

“ ‘That I will not tell/ ‘ 

“ ‘You take us immediately to where these brig- 
ands are hiding/ thundered the Blue, in a rage. 

“Marie did not flinch. Resting her innocent, open 
gaze upon the face of the officer, she said, ‘You may 
do what you please, but you cannot get me to betray 
those poor people/ 

“ ‘Do as I say/ roared the man, ‘or I will have you 
cut to pieces/ 

“ ‘Whatever God wills/ said Marie simply, and 
making the sign of the cross, she began to say her 
prayers, the Our Father, Hail Mary, Creed, and the 
acts of Faith, Hope, and Charity. 

“Furious at being balked by a mere child, the 
Blues tied her to a tree and began to strike her with 
their sabres. The blood soon streamed from her 
wounds. 

“ ‘Now, will you tell me where the brigands are V 
cried the officer once more. 

“Marie did not answer, but went on with her 
prayers, ‘O my God, I give you my heart, my soul, 
and my body. — Forgive us our trespasses as we for- 
give those who trespass against us/ 

“The fury of the murderers now burst all bounds. 
The sight of blood had inebriated them. Like wild 
beasts they set upon the poor little body which was 


168 


Brother and Sister. 


already one great wound. Then, suddenly, as if 
seized with shame and terror at their work, they 
cut the bonds of the child, mounted their horses and 
disappeared at full speed, leaving their victim bathed 
in her blood. 

“Two little boys of the same village who had 
gone a part of the way with Marie, and had hidden 
themselves on seeing the Blues, had watched in ter- 
ror the sufferings of their companion. As soon as 
they saw the soldiers ride off, they ran to the place. 
Marie was still alive, and they heard her repeat in a 
faint voice, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive 
those’ — . A few moments more, and her innocent 
soul had returned to God.” 

“Those were great days,” exclaimed my aunt, 
“but they do not make women that way nowadays. 
Three-fourths of our women in Anjou are good for 
nothing, and as for the men, it is useless to talk 
about them. They have even lost their faith.” 

“That,” retorted Dr. Durand, who realized that he 
was the butt of the last remark, “is a sign that prog- 
ress and civilization are making some headway 
against fanaticism in Anjou.” 

“Be still, you old miscreant! You will never be 
anything but a stupid heathen ; that’s plain !” 

“Catherine, my friend, you will be a bigot to your 
dying day.” 

“You can safely swear to that, old rascal that you 
are!” 

We were accustomed to occasional little inter- 


The Whites and the Beues. 


169 


ludes of this nature. They lent variety to the scene. 
The clouds never lasted long, and fair weather soon 
prevailed. 

“It is undeniably true,” Abbe Aubry continued, 
“that thorough and consistent Christians are more 
rare in our days ; but I can assure you that there are 
more of them than you imagine. Only yesterday 
one of my fellow-priests was telling me of an occur- 
rence which took place five or six years ago, and 
which he himself witnessed. I tell it to you as proof 
that — God be praised! — faith and fortitude are not 
altogether extinguished in us. 

“There lived in the district of Beauge — I will not 
be more explicit for fear of being indiscreet — an 
honest farmer, father of a large family, which he 
supported by dint of hard toil. He would have been 
a model Christian man, were it not for one grave 
fault which counterbalanced all his good qualities. 
He got drunk every Sunday, and so drunk that he 
left all the sense he had in the bottom of the glass. 
When the fumes of the wine cleared away from his 
brain, he bitterly regretted his weakness, and asked 
pardon of his children for the bad example which 
he gave them. But in spite of good resolutions he 
did not succeed in overcoming this wretched habit. 

“One Sunday morning after the first Mass, the 
time when he usually made his way to the wine-shop, 
Jean-Marie went in search of the pastor, who was 
making his thanksgiving in the sacristy. 

“ 'Monsieur le cure,’ said the man, T have been 


170 


Brother and Sister. 


thinking a long time, and I just said to myself, you 
are going straight to hell ; and so I made up my mind 
to make a vow before the Blessed Sacrament never 
to touch another drop of wine.’ 

“ 'Don’t do that, my friend,’ said the priest, smil- 
ing. 'Make a resolution to perform a certain pen- 
ance the next time you commit the sin of drunken- 
ness. That’s the best way. Don’t make a hard and 
fast promise like that. You would not be able to 
keep it.’ 

" 'But,’ urged the poor man, ‘it seems to me that 
is the only way I can be saved. Without that I will 
never leave off drinking.’ 

" 'I cannot approve of your plan, my good man,’ 
reiterated the priest. 'Make a firm resolution, but 
do not take a vow. It would not be prudent.’ 

"On general principles the pastor was most cer- 
tainly right, but in this instance his parishioner must 
have been inspired by the Holy Ghost, as the sequel 
will show. So we must not blame either the shep- 
herd or his sheep. 

"Jean-Marie went back into the church, and on his 
knees before the Blessed Sacrament, he vowed never 
again to touch a drop of wine as long as he lived. 

"Then the sturdy fellow started for home. Alas ! 
He had not gone far before temptation overtook him. 
Passing the wine-shop, where he was accustomed to 
make his weekly visit, he was seized with a violent 
desire to stop. 

"Acquaintances who saw him passing called out 
to know why he did not join them. 


The Whites and the Beues. 


171 


“ T am in a hurry/ said he. 

“ 'Oh, go on !’ cried the others, in bantering 
tones. TIas your wife been beating you, or is it the 
parish priest that has forbidden you to come in? 
Come on, old man, come in !’ 

“The temptation of human respect was added to 
that of drink. The peasant stopped, took two steps 
toward the inn, and then, suddenly controlling him- 
self, muttered, 'Jean-Marie, you must conquer or 
die!’ And turning his back on his amazed com- 
rades, he strode on toward his farm. 

“From that time on his life was one continual 
struggle. The object of his passion was ceaselessly 
before his mind. 

“Every evening the poor man would make his 
children lock him up so he could not get to the cel- 
lar, and when he had to go to the village, and on 
Sundays returning from Mass, he would take long 
round-about ways to avoid passing the tavern. Some 
times when the temptation was more violent than 
usual he would have himself bound up, and in that 
humiliating and powerless position he would remain, 
until he had regained the mastery over himself. 

“Jean-Marie lived twelve years after that, and 
during those twelve years only at rare intervals was 
he free from temptation, but he remained faithful 
unto death to his vow. What a bright crown/’ 
added Abbe Aubry, “that generous Christian soul 
must now be wearing above! Is not his a glorious 
example of fortitude and of faith? Who will say 
now that these virtues are dead here in Anjou?” 


172 


Brother and Sister. 


“And I can give you another example occurring 
in a different grade of society. I will mention no 
names. There was a man in Nantes — by the way, 
they speak very harshly of the people in that part of 
the country. The citizen of Nantes was rich and 
honored in his native city. He and his wife brought 
up their children in an exemplary manner, and theirs 
was a Christian family in the full sense of the word. 

“One day . this good man, irritated by something, 
I know not what, allowed a blasphemous expression 
to escape him in the presence of his children and of 
his servants. The act was not deliberate, certainly, 
and did not constitute a grave sin, but the Christian 
father, head of his household, realized as soon as he 
had regained his self-possession that he had given 
scandal. He resolved to make reparation at once for 
his disedifying example, and to punish himself in 
presence of the whole family. 

“At the dinner hour, when the children were al- 
ready gathered in the dining-room, the father whis- 
pered something in his wife’s ear, and she, nodding 
assent, went into the servants’ hall, returning pres- 
ently, followed by all the domestics. When all were 

present, Monsieur N said, 'Children, and you, 

too, my friends, I set you a bad example to-day. I 
so far forgot myself as to take the Holy Name of 
God in vain, and that, too, in your presence. I ask 
God’s pardon and yours and in proof of my sorrow 
I am ready to do penance.’ Whereupon this man, 
who was animated by the true Christian spirit, con- 


Ti-ik Whiter and the; Bums. 


173 


quered his human respect, and got down on his knees 
to take his dinner. His wife, his children and even 
his servants wept. Seeing the father in this humili- 
ating attitude no one else had the courage to sit 
down, and they all got on their knees. It appears 
that the same was done in the servants’ hall. 

“This was told me by the Rev. Father R., who 
was an intimate friend of the family. 

“The name of that cleric reminds me of an amus- 
ing adventure of which one of his brother priests was 
the hero. This story will be interesting to the young 
people. Do you like stories, Paul?” 

“Not all, Monsieur le cure. I like funny stories — 
very funny stories.” 

“You do! Well, I hope this one will meet with 
your approval. 

“This event occurred toward the close of the great 
war, in the spring of 1793. 1 Abbe Terrien, who 
has been dead for some years, was at that time pas- 
tor of the parish of Challain. He had been but 
recently ordained, and was only twenty-three years 
of age. His youthful figure and almost child-like 
expression of countenance would make one think he 
was barely eighteen. Compelled, like most of his 
fellows, to hide in order to avoid persecution, lie took 
refuge in a large farm in a neighboring parish, where 
he sought employment as a shepherd. 

“Master Rochard, the farmer, was the only one 

1 Father Deniau in La Guerre de la Vendee briefly cites the same 
incident. 


174 Brother and Sister. 

in his confidence. ‘Whatever you do, Bather, said 
he, ‘don’t breathe a word of who you are to a soul ; 
not to the boys and girls, but above all not to my 
wife. She is a good Christian woman, and if she 
knew who you were, she’d never have done with her 
curtsies; but, Lord! she is a bit boastful, and she 
would be so tickled at having a priest in the house 
that all the good wives in the neighborhood would 
know it before night; and then, supposing there 
was a Republican dog among them, which might 
very well be, she would betray you.’ 

“So it was decided that the secret should be kept 
and that for all but the farmer the assistant priest 
of Challain would pass for a simple shepherd boy. 

“The priest, who was of a jovial disposition, un- 
dertook to play his part in a finished manner, and to 
disarm suspicion by the appearance of stupidity, 
which he could assume to perfection. 

“He had been several days at the farm of Grand- 
Vernon, when Mistress Rochard, who was an ex- 
cellent woman and keenly alive to her duty as the 
mother of a family, bethought herself that her shep- 
herd boy might need instruction in his catechism. 

“ ‘Pierre,’ she said to him one morning, ‘come 
and let me hear if you can say your prayers and 
your catechism before you take the sheep to pas- 
ture.’ 

“ ‘If you like, Mistress,’ answered the priest, stol- 
idly. 

“ ‘Begin your Our Father, then, so I can tell 
whether you know it.’ 


The Whites and Hie Blues. 


175 


“ ‘Very well, Mistress.’ 

“Well, begin, then !” 

“The young shepherd commenced the Lord’s 
Prayer, but after the first few words he faltered, 
stopped, began over again, stopped once more, and 
finally dropped his head in confusion, while the 
farmer’s wife regarded him with the most pitying 
expression on her face. 

“ ‘You poor boy, you do not even know your 
Our Father! How old are you? Sixteen at the 
very least, I am sure !’ 

“ ‘Yes, Mistress.’ 

“ ‘Isn’t that shameful ! Who taught you ?’ 

“ ‘The Reverend Fathers, Mistress.’ 

“ ‘Then you must be very stupid ?’ 

“ ‘Yes, Mistress, very.’ 

“The good creature then set to work to teach her 
little shepherd the Lord’s Prayer. She made him 
repeat each word over and over, then each phrase. 
The poor boy made every effort to learn his lesson, 
but in vain. By the time he had learned the last 
words he had completely forgotten the first. 

“Mistress Rochard finally gave up in despair. 
‘You’re a stupid goose, and always will be!’ she 
cried, out of patience. 

“And she gave the young shepherd a good box 
on the ear. 

“ ‘Go out to the pastures,’ she said, ‘your sheep 
could learn their Our Father quicker than you.’ 

“ ‘Very well, Mistress,’ said the priest placidly, 


176 


Brother and Sister. 


and he proceeded to lead his flock into the meadows. 

“Meantime the Holy Sacrifice was to be cele- 
brated the next night in the heart of the forest , 1 
about a league distant from the farm of Grand- 
Vernon, by a priest who was in hiding in the neigh- 
borhood. Mistress Rochard was informed of the 
fact by her husband, and she in turn notified her 
neighbors, cautioning them well not to say a word 
on the subject before the young shepherd. ‘He 
is so stupid,’ she said, ‘that likely as not he would 
go round telling everybody. Not for meanness; 
he’s too simple for that; but that would not mend 
matters, and it is safest to say not a word to him 
about it.’ 

“The following night a crowd of peasants from 
the farms and hamlets of the vicinage made their 
way toward the meeting-place. In a large clearing 
in the forest an altar had been erected under a 
canopy of boughs in the rear of which the celebrant 
was putting on the priestly vestments. Armed men 
stood on the outskirts of the forest. 

“In the front row of the congregation was Mis- 
tress Rochard, absorbed in her devotions. As the 
priest passed before her on his way to the altar she 
started in amazement. The clergyman bore such a 
striking resemblance to her shepherd boy that one 
might have sworn that he was he! But what a 
notion, what nonsense! A child who did not even 

1 According to another version the Mass was not celebrated in 
the woods, but at a farm-house near Andrezd. 


The Whites and the Blues. 177 

know his Our Father! And yet, if it were not he, 
it certainly must be his twin ! 

“Wide-mouthed, and unable to believe her eyes, 
the good woman approached the altar to within a 
few feet of the celebrant. There is no doubt about 
it, it is he ! It is the little shepherd boy who is say- 
ing Mass! Mistress Rochard went back to her 
place in a state of great excitement. 'But how can 
it be ?’ she kept repeating to her neighbors. 'How is 
he to say Mass, when he does not even know his 
prayers ?’ 

“When the services were over, and the priest 
was removing his vestments behind the altar the 
good woman came up to him, her face crimson with 
mortification, and dropping on her knees, she said, 
'Forgive me, Father, for having spoken disrespect- 
fully to you and above all for striking a consecrated 
priest in the face! But, Lord! Why wouldn’t you 
say your prayers?’ ” 

With these and many other tales, which it would 
fail me to repeat, did our good pastor entertain us, 
and the evenings passed so quickly that the hour 
for departure always came too soon. 

At half-past nine the carriages “blocked the 
way.” The Hardy family got into their vehicle, the 
notary always serene, Madame Hardy always sigh- 
ing, Mademoiselle Adele always grumbling. The 
pastor and his assistants drove back to the pres- 
bytery to the sound of Coco’s measured gait. The 
doctor lit his pipe, bestrode his grey mare, and dis- 


12 


178 


Brother and Sister. 


appeared at a trot. The two Ducoudrays, carefully 
wrapped up by their housekeeper, ‘ensconced them- 
selves in the depths of their barouche, Zidore 
cracked his whip, and the mule started down the 
avenue, jingling the little bells on the harness. 

And so it was every Thursday of the year. 


PART III. 

THE SCHOOL BOY. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE} SCHOOIy IN TH^ WOODS. 

U P to the age of twelve I was very obedient. My 
sister did just as she pleased with me. My af- 
fection and respect for her were so great that when 
I was tempted to do wrong, a word or even a sign 
from her or the look of sadness in her eyes was 
sufficient to reduce me to order. But this was too 
good to last. As I grew older, pride and the desire 
for independence began to manifest themselves and, 
without ceasing to love my sister dearly, I began 
to dispute her authority, and occasionally to over- 
ride it. Soon I entered into open revolt, and 
solemnly announced that it was “beneath my dignity 
to obey a girl any longer.” 

“You know very well, Guiguitte,” I said grandly, 
“that you women were not made to rule men.” 
(With what stress I emphasized the words you 
women!) “It ought to be just the opposite. I don’t 
try to order you about, and the least you can do is 
to give me equal rights. You needn’t think you can 
lead me around like a sheep any longer. This thing 
has been going on long enough already.” 

179 


180 


Brother and Sister. 


About this time my piety began to diminish. Once 
in a while I would omit my prayers. I did not go 
to confession so often, although I was very much 
in earnest when I did go. By a great grace, how- 
ever, the continuance of which it would be presump- 
tuous to expect, God kept me from mortal sin during 
this period of my life. 

In order to correct my indolence and insubordina- 
tion, Marguerite adopted toward me an attitude of 
severity. Doubtless her reproaches were well mer- 
ited, but they offended my self-love, and I replied 
with such intolerable arrogance that she was forced 
to punish me. Then I would fly into a rage or re- 
lapse into sullen, bitter silence which was worse than 
anger, for the evil feelings pent up in my heart 
threatened to raise an insumountable barrier between 
us who, up to that time, had been united by the most 
tender affection. Marguerite soon realized the dan- 
ger, and concluded that under the circumstances 
severity was a remedy worse than the evil. After 
that she punished me no more, but simply let me 
see how deeply grieved she was by my conduct. 
The poor child was certainly much distressed and 
worried by my behavior at that time, but what trou- 
bled her most was the very grave danger which 
in the near future was sure to threaten one who 
was by nature so keen after pleasure, so intensely 
eager for freedom and so impatient of restraint. 

I learned afterwards that during this critical 
period of my life Marguerite constantly prayed for 
me. 


The: School in the: Woods. 181 

When I saw her weep, I would throw my arms 
around her neck and cry, too. “Ah,” I would say, 
“that’s the way to manage me. If only you were 
always kind, I would do whatever you say.” Then 
I would beg her pardon, as I used to do when I was 
little, promise to work hard, get all my tasks, and 
mind what she said. This would last one day or per- 
haps two. Then the good impression would wear 
off, and I would begin my capers once more. 

My aunt did not regard this matter in so serious 
a light as she should have done. 

“Pshaw!” she would say to Marguerite. “When 
all’s said and done, he is a man. His body must 
-develop, his will get strong , 1 and his energy have 
free play. Boys have to run risks. That’s what 
makes them hardy. Paul will turn out a real man of 
Vendee. I am sure of it!” 

The good soul was imprudent enough occasionally 
to express herself after this fashion in my presence, 
which, it may well be understood, did not serve in 
any way to strengthen Marguerite’s authority. 

I was only twelve years old, but daily outdoor 
exercise on foot and on horse-back, the wholesome 
air of Mesnil and Rose’s excellent cooking had so 
developed me in size and strength that I looked like 
a vigorous youngster of fifteen. I was wild about 
hunting, fishing, and all sorts of field sports, and I 

1 As if pride and insubordination would strengthen the will ! It 
is the mastery of self acquired by obedience practised in a spirit of 
faith, which makes strong characters. 


182 


Brother and Sister. 


used to slip off without permission early in the morn- 
ing, my rifle swung over my back. If the doors 
were locked, I would jump out of the window, first 
purloining some provisions from the pantry. That 
would be the last of me for the whole day. I came 
in at unheard-of hours, long after dark, sometimes, 
without the least thought of the anxiety which my 
long absence had caused Marguerite. 

About a league from Mesnil, in a little hut on the 
banks of the Gemme, there lived an old peasant who, 
in spite of his seventy-five years, , was as hardy and 
vigorous as in his prime. In 1793, Julien Courteau, 
then only sixteen, enlisted with the volunteers of 
Monsieur de Bonchamp, and fought in the great 
war for God and the King until the time of Char- 
ette’s death. He was a widower with no children, 
and made his living with the aid of his traps and 
gun. He was the most skilful poacher in the coun- 
try. He was so wily in throwing the police and 
game-keepers off the scent, that these respectable 
agents of law and order had never been able to lay 
their hands on him. Just as they thought they had 
him, he would disappear like a phantom and with a 
swiftness and dexterity which savored of the pre- 
ternatural. 

Old Courteau honored me with his friendship. I 
often went to see him in his hut, and he initiated 
me into the secrets of his craft. He taught me 
to discover the hiding-places of the game, to choose 
the best localities to lurk in, where we would some- 


The School, in the Woods. 


183 


times lie in wait half the night; to stretch snares at 
night-fall, and to find the favorite haunts of the 
trout which peopled the limpid waters of the Gemme. 
In winter, we would go down the river in a little 
boat, which in two hours time would bring us to the 
Loire. There, hidden among the reeds, we would 
shoot on the wing the sea-fowl or wild ducks which 
flew low over the neighboring islands on cold morn- 
ings in December, piping their shrill notes. I had 
grown to be so expert that I never missed the quarry 
at a hundred yards with the big duck gun of 
Courteau. “Bravo, Monsieur Paul !” the old poacher 
would say at every fresh deed of prowess on the 
part of his pupil, and I would thrill with pride and 
pleasure as our faithful dog, Toutou, threw him- 
self bravely into the water to search amid the float- 
ing ice for the game which had fallen at my shot. 
This life of adventure was very fascinating, and 
made the study of Cicero and Virgil seem more and 
more tame. 

I had always concealed my relations with 
Courteau from my sister, for she had positively for- 
bidden me to go and see him. He was, to be sure, a 
good-hearted old fellow with perfectly correct habits 
(I never heard an improper expression from his 
lips), but the intimacy was of no benefit to me, for 
it increased my love of independence and my dis- 
taste for mental exertion. Moreover, my chosen 
mentor did not hesitate to set me the example of 
lying. If Marguerite, who had her suspicions, tried 


184 


Brother and Sister. 


to make an unexpected visit to the poacher’s cabin, 
the old man, who was ever on the look-out, always 
warned me in time. “Hide, Monsieur Paul ! Mam- 
zelle is coming after you,” and he would push me 
into a sort of cupboard, so deceptively built in the 
wall that Guitte never realized that she was sitting 
within a few feet of the hiding place of “le petit 
gars.” 

To all of Marguerite’s questions he would reply 
with an innocent air, “I have not seen Monsieur 
Paul, Mamzelle. It may be he went by here, but I 
never saw him. I don’t know where he is.” 

Up to that time Marguerite had always been able 
to read my eyes, which as well as my words ex- 
pressed truly what was going on in my mind. The 
example of old Courteau gradually instilled the 
habits of deceit and falsehood, which are so ignoble 
and so dangerous. 

While I was charmed with the exciting expedi- 
tions which I made in company with the old woods- 
man, I was if possible still more delighted in listen- 
ing to the tales he told me in his peasant dialect, 
full, it is true, of barbarisms and solecisms, but so 
vivid and picturesque! Having served under Bon- 
champ, Roche jaquelein, and Charette, he had taken 
part in the mighty and terrible events of that time, 
which lived again by the striking reality of his de- 
scription. I may be allowed to reproduce some of 
the narrations of the veteran, the arbitrary syntax 
and quaint imagery of whose style I shall as far as 
possible respect. 


The: School in the: Woods. 


185 


With what emotions of affection and regret did 
the brave soldier revive the memory of his comrades 
in arms, and especially his commanders, who had so 
many times met and overcome the picked armies of 
the Republic, and forced her most illustrious gen- 
erals to retreat ! 

This is how he spoke of Bonchamp, who was his 
first commanding officer. 

“I was only fifteen and a half,” he began, “when 
I saw all the boys at home going up to the chateau 
of Baronniere. That’s where Monsieur le Marquis 
de Bonchamp lived with his lady and his two little 
girls. They were going to get him to lead them 
against the Blues. I was out at service then with 
Viaud, who was one of his tenants. ‘Are you going, 
Julien?’ — Julien is just my name, Monsieur Paul. 
‘Are you going along?’ said they as they passed by. 
That was Jaques and Pierre Robineau of the town of 
Lire, who were my own cousins, because their 
mother was sister to mine. ‘Aren’t you ashamed!’ 
Mistress Viaud said to them, ‘to want to take a 
child like that with you ! He is barely sixteen. Go 
you, if you want to, but don’t try to take Julien 
along !’ 

“And so the boys went off, and the farmer’s wife 
double-locked the door before she went out to the 
fields, so I could not get out, and she even shut the 
outside shutters to keep me from getting out the 
window. Viaud himself had gone up to the Baron- 
niere with the rest. 


186 


Brother and Sister 


“I watched through a crack in the door until the 
farmer’s wife was well out of the way, and then I 
said to myself, 'I have got to go too, just the same !’ 

“I was sickly enough in those days. I was little, 
very little, not big a bit, so that my mother, when I 
was home, used to send me up the chimney to knock 
down the soot, and she called me her little chimney- 
sweep. So then I said to myself, ‘The farmer’s wife 
has locked the door, and barred the windows, but 
she never stopped up the chimney.’ So I set to work 
to crawl up. Climb, then, climb away! And in 
climbing I knocked the soot full into the kettle of 
soup, which had been simmering since morning. 
Never fear! They ate it all the same! 

“So I got to the top of the chimney, and then slid 
down the roof, which came nearly to the ground, 
and then made off for Baronniere. 

“When I got there I found the court-yard full. 
‘You here, Julien?’ said Viaud to me. ‘What makes 
your face so black? You look as if you had just 
come out of the oven.’ 

“ ‘Lord, Master ! The Mistress put me under 
lock and key to keep me from running away, so I 
had to climb the chimney, and here I am.’ 

“ ‘You did right, boy. The Mistress is entirely 
too soft-hearted.’ 

“While we were waiting in the court-yard, the 
great door opened, and Madame la Marquise came 
out to the men, and told them to go back to their 
homes ; that they would be the cause of great mis- 


The: School in thk Woods. 187 

fortunes in the land, if they persisted in gathering 
together like that and that her husband would not 
lead them on to slaughter. 

“ ‘Slaughter for slaughter, Madame la Marquise/ 
replied Viaud, ‘I would rather we died fighting than 
murdered in our homes like rats, with all respect to 
you/ 

“ ‘That’s the truth,’ said all the men, and they 
began to shout, ‘Monsieur le Marquis, we want Mon- 
sieur le Marquis!’ They made such an uproar you 
could not hear yourself think. 

“I could see Madame la Marquise did not like it 
at all, and she began to weep and weep, and she hid 
jier face in her handkerchief and went back into the 
chateau. Then Monsieur le Marquis came out him- 
self by the great door, and he spoke like this : ‘You 
wish it then, boys ! Well, it may be madness, but it 
shall never be said that my peasants die for their 
religion, while I stay here and warm my feet. Come 
on, then ! For our religion ! Long live the King !’ 

“And you should have heard the men shout! 
Thunder is nothing to it! 

“Then Monsieur le Marquis went back, and pretty 
soon he came out again with a white scarf on, a 
white band on his hat, two pistols in his belt and his 
great sword in his hand. We all followed him, some 
with sickles, some with pikes, others with their 
hunting guns, but nothing to put in them. ‘Don’t 
worry about that, boys,’ said Monsieur le Marquis, 
‘If we have no cartridges, the Blues have, and we 


188 Brother and Sister. 

will have them too when we take them out of their 
pockets/ 

“So then we started. 

“There was young Huchet of the village of Sorin- 
iere, who came with us because he thought they 
would not really go, but when he saw that every one 
was going, he went, too — only he went the wrong 
way ! That Huchet was a worthless chap, any way, 
Monsieur Paul.” 

Don’t you think there is something vivid, pic- 
turesque and very characteristic in the simple, 
humble manner in which he expressed himself? 

Another time my old friend described the death 
of his general. 

“We had been beaten down at Cholet like grain 
before the wind. We were hurrying to cross the 
Loire at Saint-Florent. Girls and boys, old and 
young, old men and women, horses, oxen and cows, 
everybody was trying to get over. 

“We had five thousand prisoners with us, and we 
did not want to leave them behind. They would 
have taken our guns and fired on us. They had 
done it often enough before, the scoundrels! Ah, 
well ! May their souls rest in peace. I wish it with 
all my heart! 

“And now old Monsieur Cesbron, — yes, he was 
the man, Cesbron of Argogne, who was in command 
of the boys who were guarding the Republican pris- 
oners, shouted to us to kill them all before we crossed 
the river. 'They must be stamped out, boys,’ he 


'The School in The Woods. 


189 


said, ‘they must be stamped out! They are a bad 
lot. They are vermin! These are the men who 
have killed your wives and children, murdered the 
King, carried off your cattle, set fire to your villages. 
Death to the Blues, death, I say !’ 

“Then the men all thundered, ‘Death! Death to 
the Blues!’ And the miserable prisoners began to 
weep and wail, and to offer us all the gold and silver 
they had, but no one would look at it. 

“The officers tried hard to persuade us not to do 
away with them, but we would not listen. As for 
me, Monsieur Paul, my mother had been stabbed 
by a Blue, and my little sister trampled to death 
under the horses’ feet, where she had been thrown 
on purpose, and I wanted their blood. I would have 
liked to have all the Blues in my shoes and stamp 
them to death with one blow. 

“Then we put them all in the church at Saint- 
Florent, and it was as full as if it were Easter day, 
only this time it was not good Christians that 
crowded it! And then we trained two cannon on 
the great door of the church, and charged them to 
the muzzles, and shouted to the gunners, ‘Eire, boys, 
fire ! ! Death to the Blues ! Death to the murderers ! 
Fire !’ 

“Now you must know that our general, Monsieur 
le Marquis, had been wounded at Cholet two days 
before by a ball in the stomach, and he was lying 
as though dead, and had not said a word since the 
evening before. But now he woke up a little, all of 


190 


Brother and Sister. 


a sudden, and said to Monsieur d’Autichamp, his 
aide-de-camp, who was with him, ‘Charles! What 
are the men shouting* like that for ?’ And really we 
were making noise enough to wake the dead. ‘They 
are going to kill the Blues/ said Monsieur d’Auti- 
champ. ‘Horrible !’ he said. ‘The fair name of our 
Vendee will be gone forever! See here, my friend,’ 
he said to Monsieur d’Autichamp, ‘this is the last 
order you will ever carry for me. I am going to die 
soon. Go tell my soldiers from me that I forbid 
them to attempt the life of a single Blue; that I am 
dying; that soon I shall appear in the presence of 
the Good Lord, and that I wish to carry with me the 
pardon of the Blues, so He will receive me into Para- 
dise. Make haste, my friend, while there is still 
time !’ 

“And now comes Monsieur d’Autichamp, all out 
of breath just as we were setting off the cannon, 
and he told us just what Monsieur le Marquis said 
to tell us. 

“And first everything was so still for a minute 
you could have heard a fly move. Then two or three 
began to say, ‘Mercy for the Blues! Monsieur le 
Marquis wants it. We are Christians, anyway!’ And 
then everyone began to shout the same, and I who 
had vowed to avenge my mother and sister and to 
kill every Blue I could catch, there I was, too, with 
a changed heart, giving up my revenge. ‘Let’s for- 
give them,’ I said, ‘so the Good Lord will forgive 
us, too!’ 


Thk School in the: Woods. 191 

“We went into the church and told the Blues what 
had happened. My, but they were glad! There 
were some who went crazy and shouted ‘Long live 
the King!’ 

“Some of them fired on us afterwards when we 
were crossing the river. Ah, well ! I guess the Good 
Lord caught them !” 

When he spoke of Roche jaquelein, the enthusiasm 
of the old peasant was unbounded. 

After the death of Bonchamp, Julien presented 
himself to the young commander, who was so favor- 
ably impressed with his fine bearing, his courage, 
and his address that he took him into his service. 

“I followed him everywhere,” said Courteau 
proudly. “I had charge of his horses, burnished his 
sabre, his guns, and his pistols, did everything for 
him. That man was the bravest of the brave. There 
were not two like him, I am certain, in the whole 
land of France! 

“At Saumur the men did not attack with a will, 
because the Blues had made holes in the walls, and 
put cannon behind them which poured shot into our 
ranks. When Monsieur Henri saw that the men 
were afraid to go on, he took his great chapeau 
with the white cockade, and threw it on top of the 
wall. ‘Who will get it for me ?’ he said, and all the 
men began to jump and scramble and climb to the 
top. Everyone said to himself, Til be the one to 
get M’sieu Henri’s chapeau for him.’ Whew! It 
was himself who got there first, and the devil 


192 


Brother and Sister. 


couldn’t have done it quicker! He put on his 
chapeau, and ran along the wall helping the men up, 
and soon the Blues were running in every direction. 
Lord ! there was a man that was a man ! And didn’t 
I love him, M’sieu Henri ! With all that, he was not 
the least bit proud. Many a time I have seen him, in 
place of taking his breakfast with the officers,' who 
had a mess to themselves, come over to us where we 
were eating, and say, ‘Any room for me, men?’ 
You should have seen how pleased the men were 
to have M’sieu Henri with them! Every mother’s 
son of them would have taken the bread out of his 
mouth to give it to M’sieu Henri! 

“Ah, but the Blues would have liked to kill him ! 
You know, Monsieur Paul, that M’sieu Henri, to 
tantalize the Blues, tied Cholet handkerchiefs — you 
know the Cholet handkerchiefs were bright red, and 
you could see them a long way off — well, M’sieu 
Henri fastened them in his hat, round his neck and 
in his belt, so that the Blues could always see him. 
They would have given more than a thousand crowns 
to catch him. 

“ ‘M’sieu Henri,’ we said, ‘take off those hand- 
kerchiefs. The Blues will see nothing but you!’ 
He only laughed ! ‘Do you think, boys, that I am 
going to hide from the Blues? It will take more 
than Blues to make me put away my handkerchiefs !’ 

“When we heard that, we said to each other, 
‘That will never do. M’sieur Henri is bound to be 
picked off, sooner or later. If he won’t listen to us, 


The: School in the Woods. 


193 


we’ll all follow suit !’ So all the boys fastened Cho- 
let handkerchiefs in their hats so that the Blues 
could not tell which was M’sieu Henri! When he 
saw that, he laughed and said, ‘That’s not fair !’ ” 
Listening to old Courteau, one is reminded of the 
spirited ballad of Botrel, “Les Coquelicots.” My 
readers will thank me for reproducing it. 

Les Coquelicots. 1 

(Fragment.) 

La Rochejaquelein, le heros de Vendee, 

M’sieur Henri, “l'intrepide,” ainsi qu’on l’appelait, 
Nouait h son chapeau, son col et son epee 
Trois mouchoirs rouges de Cholet. 

II avait des yeux bleus oil rayonnait son ame 
Un front pur; il avait vingt ans, des cheveux d’or. 

II etait doux et bon, tendre comme une femme, 

Brave comme un Campeador. 

II tirait son dpee et Ton entrait en danse, 

Aux cris de: “Vive Dieu, ses Pretres et son Roi!” 

II disait h ses gars: “Suivez-moi si j’avance: 

Si je recule, tuez-moi!” 

Et tous les gars suivaient ce coq & rouge cr§te: 

On passait oh passait La Rochejaquelein 
Car d’Elbee et Lescure, et Stofflet et Charette 
Avaient dit: “C’est un Duguesclin!” 


Or les “Bleus,” las de voir ces “Brigands” invincibles 
Conduit par cet enfant, poussSrent un long cri: 

“Ne visons que le chef!” et choisirent pour cible 
Les trois mouchoirs de “M’sieur Henri.” 


1 See appendix for translation. 
13 


194 


Brother and Sister. 


Aussitot bourdonnant ainsi que des abeilles 
Butineuses de sang — de sang jeune qui bout — 

Les balles des fusils chantSrent aux oreilles 
De “M’sieur Henri” toujours debout. 

Les Vendeens criaient: “C’est vous seul que Ton guette: 
Tirez done vos mouchoirs, ohe la! M’sieur Henri! 

Tirez au moins c’ti-ia, qu’est dessur votre tete, 

Ou vous allez §tre p6ri!” 

Et Tenfant repondait en riant: “Qu’est-ce a dire? 

Me degrader? Jamais! Me cacher? Que non pas! 
C’est un immense honneur que d’etre un point de mire: 
Si je meurs, vengez-moi, les gars!” 

Ceux-ci firent alors une chose splendide! 

Ces heros en sabots, ces rustres valeureux, 

Pour sauver celui-la qu’ils nommaient l’lntrepide 
Attirerent la Mort sur eux: 

Sous le feu, chacun prit dans sa petite veste, 

Dans ses brayes de toile ou son bissac de peau, 

Un mouchoir de Cholet — un mouchoir rouge — et, preste, 
Se l’attacha sur le chapeau! 

Et les “Bleus” dbahis de voir, a la seconde, 

Tant de chefs qui s’offraient au feu de leurs flingots, 
Cherchaient en vain l’epi de ble, la paille blonde 
Dans ce champ de coquelicots! 

How these fine lines of the Breton poet, recalling 
the glories of the past, stir the blood, and rouse one 
to enthusiasm ! 

“Ah !” continued Courteau, “Brave M’sieu 
Henri ! He could give it to those Republicans. At 
Entrammes, on the other side of the Roire, not far 
from Laval, he almost destroyed the army of May- 
ence. And then at Dol! What a night that was, 


The School in the Woods. 195 

Monsieur Paul! I shall remember it as long as I 
live. If it had not been for M’sieu Henri, we would 
have been lost! He fought, mind you, thirty-six 
hours running, without eating a morsel. He changed 
horses seven times. Two fell under him, killed by 
bullets, and the others were worn out, because he 
worked them so hard, galloping from one end of the 
field to the other incessantly. We fought that time 
seven hours after dark, and you could hardly tell 
friend from enemy. Sometimes we took cartridges 
from the same caisson, first the Blues, and then our 
men. We saw only by the light of the firing. But, 
Lord! You could tell a Republican by the way 
they profaned the name of God. Our men never 
swore. 

“A Blue and I ran into one another, and neither 
one knew who the other was. 

“ ‘Who are you ?’ I said. 

“ ‘Who are you yourself ?’ answered he, cursing 
like a heathen. 

“ ‘He’s a Blue for sure,’ I said, and I drew my 
sword across his throat. Many a one died like that. 

“The Blues lost so many men that when they 
found it out next morning, they ran in every direc- 
tion. M’sieu Henri followed them up for two hours, 
capturing the cannon which, in order to get away 
faster, they left behind. 

“After that he had breakfast off a piece of bread 
and some boiled potatoes that I got from the good 
people around there, who were friendly to us. Poor 


196 Brother and Sister. 

things ! They would have given us more, but it was 
all they had! 

“Poor M’sieu Henri ! And to think that he should 
have died so young and just when he had come back 
to his own country! 

“The army was done for. There was no more 
Vendee! M’sieu Henri had crossed back again over 
the Loire with Monsieur Stoffiet and two or three 
hundred men. He still worried the Blues for five 
or six weeks. But one day he ran into two Repub- 
lican dragoons in a narrow lane. ‘Surrender!’ he 
said, ‘You will not be harmed.’ One of them threw 
down his gun. The other said, ‘I surrender,’ and 
held out his musket as if to give it up. M’sieu Henri 
went up to take it, when the Blue, who still held 
the gun by the stock, stepped back a little, aimed at 
M’sieu Henri’s heart, and laid him stark dead at 
one shot. I killed the Republican with my sabre, 
you may be sure, but the other one I let off, because 
it was not his fault. But that did not bring back 
M’sieu Henri. 

“After that,” Courteau went on, “I went with 
Monsieur Stoffiet. He was brave, too. I don’t say 
he wasn’t. But he was not like M’sieu Henri, and 
when he had Monsieur de Marigny shot, I left him, 
and so did a good many men from our part of the 
country, because we knew the Good Lord was not 
with him. Then we went to Monsieur de Charette. 
And he was a real general! The Blues were so 
afraid of him that they wanted to make peace, and 


The: School in the Woods. 197 

he went into Nantes with four hundred of his sol- 
diers. I was only two paces from him. He wore 
his white cockade in his chapeau, and all the people 
ran out to see him. 

“But after all they betrayed him. If it hadn’t 
been for that, they never would have taken him. 
Then the Blues took him to Nantes again to shoot 
him. They marched him about the streets all day 
to show him off, they were so glad they had no more 
to fear from him. He could hardly drag himself 
around on account of three wounds which he had 
lately got. But he faced them with such an air that 
not one dared look him in the eye ! Then next morn- 
ing they took him out to the Place Viarmes to shoot 
him, and Monsieur de Charette, when he passed by 
No. 3, on the Rue du Marchix, looked up and said 
his Condteor , because he had been told that a priest 
would be there at the window to give him absolution. 
And I did see an old man dressed like a salt-maker, 
who made the sign of the cross over him as he 
went by. 

“They started to blind-fold him. ‘What do you 
take me for?’ he said, and he gave the word to the 
men who were to shoot him in a voice that you could 
hear, Monsieur Paul, as far as the Place Bretagne. 
‘Long live religion ! Long live the King !’ he cried, 
and then gave the signal to fire. And so he died, 
poor Monsieur de Charette ! 

“I loved him, too, but not the same as M’sieu 
Henri!” 


198 Brother and Sister. 

The tales of Courteau fired me with war-like 
desires. 

“Come on/’ said I, one day after he had finished 
a most exciting narration. “Let’s go and capture 
the police station at Saint-Laurent. We two can 
easily get the better of the three men there, and we 
will put the mayor in prison, if he resists. Then 
we’ll call all the peasants around to arms, and begin 
the great war over again, and this time we’ll go as 
far as Paris.” 

The old hunter shook his head. 

“That would do very well in old times, Monsieur 
Paul, but nowadays the men are not the same as 
they were in my time. If we should do that, no 
one would come with us. I should lose my head, 
and as for you, they would shut you up until you are 
twenty-one. There’s no use trying it.” 

For the time being I relinquished my plan of 
operation against the police-station at Saint-Laurent, 
and indulged my bellicose propensities by making 
war upon the wild ducks. 

This life of freedom and adventure was wonder- 
fully satisfying, and I was willing to have it continue 
indefinitely, but I had reached the end of my tether, 
and very soon I was to be hauled up short. 

One evening in October I returned to Mesnil 
after having spent the entire day away from home. 
I was completely tired out and hungry as a bear, 
but all smiles, for I had shot my first rabbit, which 
I carried proudly over my shoulders. As I passed 


The: School in the: Woods. 199 

through the kitchen, Cillette told me that my brother 
Charles had come that morning, that Lucie was not 
with him, and he and Marguerite were by themselves 
in the parlor. I was only half pleased to hear of 
Charles’ coming. Not that I was not fond of him, 
but he was my guardian, and I knew he would re- 
prove me. I at once suspected that my sister had 
instigated his visit, and I augured nothing good 
from it. However, I went into the parlor, swinging 
my rabbit to keep my courage up. 

Charles received me coldly. Marguerite and he 
looked sad. 

“You have been behaving very badly, my dear 
boy,” said Charles, quietly. “Your sister is per- 
fectly right in being displeased with you for your 
disobedience and idleness. It is high time some au- 
thority was asserted over you. To-morrow I am 
going to take you to Lyons and put you in school 
there. Go, get your dinner, and go right to bed. 
We must start at five o’clock.” 

I was in the depths. The idea of losing the free- 
dom which was so dear to me was dreadful indeed. 
But I did not dare say a word. Charles spoke in a 
tone which was new to me, and which did not admit 
of dispute. Marguerite, whose eyes were red from 
weeping, had not spoken to me at all. I left the 
room with my unlucky rabbit, which had not won 
for me the slightest complimentary remark. I went 
back to the kitchen, and sat down at the end of the 
table to eat the stew which old Rose had ready for 


200 


Brother and Sister. 


me. I am sure she had dropped many a tear over it, 
for she cried as if her heart would break, when she 
heard I was to leave in the morning. Cillette and 
Lexis stood in front of me in wide-eyed astonish- 
ment. All this did not tend to make me very cheer- 
ful. Besides, I knew very well that I had gone too 
far, and I dreaded some severe retribution. As I 
was not yet bad at heart I felt very keenly Charles’ 
distress and, above all, the suffering which poor 
Guitte must undergo. These sad thoughts over- 
whelmed me, and I wept bitterly half the night, but 
as I was very weary after the day’s expedition, I 
finally dropped off into a sound sleep. 


CHAPTER X. 


the: couvDge. 

T HE next morning at half-past four — it was 
Thursday, the tenth of October, 1854, I will 
never forget the date — Charles came up to wake me. 
He had to make several attempts before I was 
roused, for I was sleeping very heavily. The long 
tramp of the previous day, and the grief which had 
kept me awake half the night, had quite exhausted 
me. When I did awake, it was to the consciousness 
of the sad reality, and I once more began to weep 
bitterly. Marguerite had not gone to bed at all. She 
had worked all night long, marking my linen and 
preparing my clothes. Sorrow and fatigue had quite 
altered her usual appearance. Her affection for her 
unruly brother was so deep and tender that nothing 
but the conviction of her imperative duty in the 
matter could have induced her to part with him. 
How very dear I cost her! 

I realized perfectly that she was doing herself 
violence in agreeing to this separation, and I made 
one last effort. 

“If you love me, why do you send me away?” I 
said, clinging with my arms around her neck. 

201 


202 


Brother and Sister. 


“If you had been good, I would not have let you 
go for anything in the world. But it is God’s will. 
It is my duty. There is no use in your persisting.” 

She spoke with such energy and firmness that I 
saw the matter was settled beyond recall. Then in 
revenge I sulked, and obstinately refused to eat any- 
thing, though everyone begged and implored me to 
do so. 

My aunt was displeased and disappointed. She 
was proud of me because I was strong and hearty, 
enterprising and fearless, and bade fair to become a 
“crack shot.” 

“Why do you want to make a city gentleman and 
a good-for-nothing of him?” she said, impatiently. 
“You scold him for running about the country from 
morning until night. Will you like it any better to 
have him trapesing up and down the boulevards 
with a cigar between his teeth, or loafing in the 
cafes? You are making a mistake, children, but it 
is your own look-out. Charles is his guardian, and 
I have nothing to say. As for you, little one,” she 
continued, “don’t worry over it. This year will pass 
as others have before, and perhaps, if you are a good 
boy, they won’t send you back again. But you will 
always be a real Vendean, eh? Never deny your 
principles or blush for your country.” 

“Don’t be afraid, aunt,” I said, resolutely ; “I will 
be a Vendean to my dying day.” Then I whispered 
in her ear : “You’ll send me word how old Courteau 
gets on, won’t you, and whether the partridge broods 
come out all right ?” 


The: CoixSGE. 


203 


“Yes, yes, my boy ,” she said, and hurried away to 
hide her tears, of which she was very much 
ashamed. 

And now it was time to start. I went to say 
good-bye to Tom, who watched me disappear with 
sad longing in his eyes. Then I got into the little 
phaeton where Charles was already seated, and we 
were just about to go when Rose came running, all 
out of breath, with an enormous basket of provisions, 
which she pushed under the seat. 

“You must make the little fellow eat something, 
Monsieur Charles,” the poor woman said, with a 
break in her voice. “It’s a great risk to be carrying 
a child of his age to such a far-away place. He 
hasn’t enough shirts, either, I am certain. Do they 
wash their clothes at Yon (Lyons), Monsieur 
Charles? Is there plenty of water there?” 

This unsophisticated query made me laugh in spite 
of my tears. 

“Poor little fellow!” the old woman continued. 
“Will he ever come back?” 

“Of course he will, Rose,” said Charles. “I will 
bring him back myself in August, and you will see 
how much he will have grown.” 

“Poor child ! What’s he going to eat ? August ! 
You are only fooling me. I’ll be dead and gone be- 
fore he ever comes back !” 

Then Cillette had to take leave of me, too. “Well ! 
Good-bye to you, master,” said the poor girl. “Try 
and have a good time. They say it’s a fine place. 
Be sure and let us know how you get on.” 


204 


Brother and Sister. 


Marguerite kissed me once more, and her tears 
fell on my forehead. Suddenly she turned to Charles 
and said : “Now go. Let us have it over. I cannot 
stand any more. ,, 

Charles gathered up the reins, and Fanfan darted 
forward like an arrow. We had Lexis with us; he 
was to take the horse and wagon back to Mesnil 
that evening. 

We quickly covered the eighteen miles to Angers, 
and as I had somewhat regained my spirits, I did 
full justice to the breakfast which Charles had or- 
dered at the “Lion d’Or.” We reserved Rose’s pro- 
visions for the long journey still before us. At last, 
at nine o’clock, after taking leave of Lexis, charging 
him with a thousand and one messages and saying 
good-bye to Fanfan, whom I kissed tenderly on the 
tip of his nose, we got into the express train for 
Paris. At six that evening we reached the capital. 
(The trains were not as fast then as they are now.) 
I had often longed to see that wonderful Paris, 
about which I had heard so much, but Charles 
rightly judged that the present would be an ill- 
chosen time in which to give me a treat, so we had 
our dinner in the restaurant at the railway terminal. 
Then we took a cab for the Lyons station. 

The next morning at ten o’clock we were at our 
destination. Lucie was there to meet us, and gave 
me a most affectionate greeting. We got into the 
carriage which was drawn by two magnificent 
blooded horses. They had been champing their bits 


The CoixECE. 


205 


and snorting with impatience at the entrance to the 
station, and the coachman had hardly been able to 
control them. They started off like the wind directly 
we were seated, and soon brought us to the Route 
des Etroits and the residence of Monsieur Robert, 
Charles’ father-in-law. Lucie proudly showed me 
her two babies, Jeanne and Madeleine. Jeanne was 
three years old, Madeleine seven months; and the 
latter had that morning cut her first tooth. Think 
of the delight of papa and mamma! That day it 
happened that I had quite a bad toothache, and I 
said to Lucie, laughing, “You are very foolish to 
be so glad because she is getting teeth. Perhaps the 
poor little thing will be sorry she has them some 
day.” 

I must add that my two nieces said “How d’ye 
do” to their Uncle Paul in the sweetest way in the 
world, according to the opinion of their fond mother, 
and they made friends at once, and did not want to 
go away. 

Lucie had arranged a pretty room for me, which 
overlooked a large and beautiful garden planted 
with noble trees. She had furnished the room with 
everything she could think of that was likely to 
please a boy of my age. While I was freshening up 
a bit after the journey, I heard her talking to Charles 
in the next room. 

“And now I hope he will soon feel at home, poor 
child !” she said. 

“My dear,” responded Charles, “you are very 


206 


Brother and Sister. 


much mistaken if you imagine that by loading him 
with attentions and presents, as you are doing, you 
will correct his faults and make a man of him ! That 
is not the way to set about it. The boy has got to 
suffer. In other words, he must eat humble pie. If 
you are going to spoil him like this, it would have 
been better to let him run wild in Anjou, where the 
air is more wholesome than it is here in Lyons. I 
had best put him in boarding-school at once.” 

“Oh, no! Don’t do that. At least let him dine 
and sleep here. It is bad enough for a child who 
has been accustomed to run about as he pleased to be 
shut up within four walls all day long. He really 
must come home at seven.” 

“Very well,” said Charles, “I am willing to try it; 
but if, by the first of January, he does not show some 
improvement, I tell you positively I will put him in 
boarding-school. I promised Marguerite. She 
understands these matters better than you do. If 
you are going to bring your own children up this 
way, I am very much afraid they will turn out to be 
selfish and worthless.” 

I knew very well at the bottom of my heart that 
Charles and Marguerite were right, but I had not 
the courage to fall in with their ideas, though I be- 
lieved them to be wisest. I understood perfectly 
that there was one person on my side whose support 
I could count on, and I looked forward to getting 
a great deal out of my indulgent, kind-hearted, but 
far too yielding sister-in-law. 


The: College:. 


207 


At luncheon I saw for the first time Monsieur 
Robert, who also welcomed me heartily, and offered 
to take me to see the Superior of the school I 
intended to enter. 

The College Saint-Irenee, newly established 
under favor of the law of 1850 respecting freedom 
of instruction, was now in the fourth year of its 
existence. Opened in 1851 with fifty pupils, at the 
time of which I speak it had two hundred and fifty 
on the rolls. At first only very young boys were 
admitted, the most advanced being in the sixth 
grade, so that now the highest class in the school 
was only in the third grade. It was this class which 
I was to join. 

Monsieur Robert, who was immensely wealthy, 
looked upon it as a duty to support Catholic enter- 
prises, especially those in his own city, and it was he 
who had provided the funds necessary for the 
foundation of the new college. 

Abbe Lefort, the Rector of Saint-Irenee, received 
Monsieur Robert as a friend and patron of the in- 
stitution. I was entered at once for the class of the 
third grade, and it was decided that I should begin 
next day as a day-boarder. Monsieur Robert, like 
Charles, was of the opinion that I ought from the 
very start to have the benefit of boarding-school dis- 
cipline, but he had, like his son-in-law, yielded to the 
persuasions of Lucie, who had successfully pleaded 
in my behalf. I was to take the omnibus in the 
morning at half-past seven, so as to be in time to 


208 


Brother and Sister. 


assist at Mass, which the pupils attended every day. 
I would take breakfast at Saint-Irenee with my 
schoolmates, and return after the evening study- 
hour, which was over at half-past six. Charles’ or- 
derly was to meet me at the door of the college and 
escort me home, thus anticipating any temptation to 
run about the streets. 

The Rector treated me with fatherly kindness. 
He showed me over the building himself, and intro- 
duced me to my future professor, Abbe Duval, and 
to the prefects of studies and recreation, Messieurs 
Renard and Leroy. I was not at all displeased with 
my first impressions, for these gentlemen all seemed 
very agreeable, and acted as if they liked me already, 
but my heart sank within me when I realized that 
I must stay all day long in these class-rooms, or in 
the quadrangle, and that there was now no escape 
from study. There I must sit without moving for 
hours and hours on these lovely October mornings, 
when it is so good to be in the country; when the 
forests are arrayed anew in the varied splendors of 
autumn; the furrows, freshly opened by the plow, 
are covered with a silver network of cobwebs; the 
wine of Anjou already sparkles in the crimson clus- 
ters on the banks of the Loire; a violet mist, 
gilded by the rising sun, hangs over the meadows; 
the red partridge calls in clear notes to the echo; 
the first woodcocks stop by the gently flowing brook, 
and the wild ducks begin to utter their shrill cries 
above the pools and marshes. 


The: CoixivGE. 


209 


It was all over. No more would I rock in my little 
boat while the swift, clear waters of the Gemme 
swept me on their rapid current down to the golden 
waves of the Loire. I would wander no more in the 
woods, drinking in the fine, pure air. From morn- 
ing until night I must work at themes and transla- 
tions, translations and themes. I must learn lessons 
without end, sit still for whole hours and listen to 
wearisome instructions. Then I counted on my 
fingers : Third Grade, Second Grade, Rhetoric* 
Philosophy! Four years it would take! Four years 
in prison ! Ah, but it was hard ! And there was no 
way out of it. Charles had made up his mind, and 
I knew that settled the matter, and thought myself 
fortunate to have escaped boarding-school. I re- 
solved to make the best of things and to go to work 
seriously. 

Unfortunately, my good resolutions soon vanished 
into thin air, and it must be confessed that circum- 
stances were anything but favorable to them. Mon- 
sieur Robert entertained frequently at dinner and in 
the evening, and there was constant coming and 
going in the house. I nearly always went to bed 
very late, so I did not get up until a few minutes 
before the omnibus which took me to school was 
due, that is, I rose at about a quarter past seven, 
so I had no time to say my prayers, or look over 
my lessons. These continual distractions were not 
likely to foster the love of study in a boy of my dis- 
position — ever on the look-out for diversion and 

fresh pleasures. 

14 


210 


Brother and Sister. 


On Thursdays the outside pupils and day-board- 
ers had a holiday, consequently, on that day I was 
absolute master of my time and my acts. Charles, 
who had just been made staff-officer by the general 
in command at Lyons, was nearly always absent on 
duty, and my sister-in-law had full charge of me, 
that is to say, I did just about as I pleased. Poor 
Lucie, who was not firm enough to refuse me the 
least thing, gave me money every week — a great 
deal of money, and so by degrees I acquired luxur- 
ious and foolish tastes. She indulged all my whims, 
even the most expensive, saying, at the same time, 
“Now, Paul, if you do not behave better than this 
I shall be in conscience bound to tell Charles, and he 
will put you in boarding-school.” I knew very well 
what her threats amounted to. 

And then I was allowed to roam about the streets 
alone, when returning from the college and on 
Thursdays. Charles’ orderly was supposed to go 
with me, but I soon found means to get rid of him. 
A little money which I had saved, or some tobacco, 
was generally enough to make him relax his vigi- 
lance, and truth to tell, he was only too glad to go 
about his business and rejoin his comrades. I think 
parents make a great mistake in trusting the care 
of their children to a man-servant or a lady’s maid. 
These people, I know by experience, discharge this 
grave duty in a very careless manner for the most 
part. It is not surprising that they should, when 
we remember that parents themselves too often lack 
vigilance in this regard. 


The; College;. 


211 


Left to myself, I made undesirable acquaintances, 
I read books and newspapers which never should 
have come within my reach; in short, I was on a 
most dangerous downward path, and it was only by 
a special grace of Divine Providence that I did not 
at that period of my life lose my faith. 

At school, things did not go much better. Al- 
though most of my classmates were older than I, 
I was by far the tallest and strongest of them all, 
which gave me unquestioned superiority in their 
eyes. Boys are almost always incapable of appreci- 
ating intellectual capacity in a companion. They set 
much higher value on his height, his muscular de- 
velopment and his physical qualities in general. A 
strong, athletic boy, even if he be at the bottom of 
his class, has almost always considerable influence 
over the other students, and if his character is 
vicious, his companionship becomes a real danger to 
them. The danger is still greater, if to the physical 
advantage of such a boy be added unusual intelli- 
gence or, still worse, a quick, brilliant mind. 

The day I began at Saint-Irenee the class was at 
work at a Latin translation. I had read Latin a 
great deal with Marguerite, and she had taught me 
to translate accurately, so it was mere child’s play 
to me to understand and render into French the 
passage dictated by the professor. The next Mon- 
day I was put at the head of the class, and was 
praised by Abbe Duval and the Superior. I was 
very proud and pleased with myself, and instead of 


212 


Brother and Sister. 


my success being an incentive to further effort, I 
concluded that I could keep at the head of the class 
without exerting myself. 

These circumstances combined to give me great 
ascendancy over my classmates, and, unhappily, I 
made very bad use of it. Still, I thank God that I 
did not set them a really vicious example, although 
I was the cause of much disorder and lack of disci- 
pline in the first division, which at that time com- 
posed the third and fourth grades. I played all 
sorts of jokes and tricks in the study-hall, the class- 
room and at recreation. These efforts at being 
funny, without being actually bad, were, for the 
most part, rather silly; but they inspired, neverthe- 
less, much applause from the gallery, which served 
to increase my vanity. It is not generally appreci- 
ated what a desire, or rather passion, some children 
have for provoking others to laughter, for attracting 
the attention of their companions by some word, 
gesture, or attitude. I was fast becoming a serious 
detriment to Saint-Irenee. 

I was several times lectured in a fatherly manner, 
and, as my delinquencies became more and more 
frequent, I was threatened with more vigorous 
measures. I only escaped expulsion a few weeks 
after I had entered the college by reason of the 
extreme leniency of the Rector and his reluctance 
to displease Monsieur Robert, the founder of the 
institution. I owe it to Abbe Lefort to add, how- 
ever, that he was a very conscientious man, and if 


The: Cou^ge:. 


213 


he had thought my presence at Saint-Irenee to be a 
source of danger to the moral welfare of the children 
confided to his care, he would not have hesitated 
an instant to send me home to my guardians. God 
be praised, there was no such danger; but at the 
same time I was very troublesome, and it required 
the greatest patience on the part of the teachers to 
retain me in the school. Moreover, the professors 
and prefects were not the only ones who had com- 
plaints to make. Charges were also forthcoming 
from other quarters, for there was no end to the 
tricks I invented to torment the passers-by, the 
shopkeepers, and the servants. 

It was a considerable walk from Saint-Irenee to 
Monsieur Robert’s home, and as the supervision of 
the nurses and footmen amounted to little or noth- 
ing, my schoolmates and I were free to put into 
practice every mischievous notion that entered our 
brains. 

One day we smeared the bell-pulls with grease 
or preserves, so that the cats and dogs of the neigh- 
borhood jumped and pulled at them with all their 
might to lick it off, and the result was a clanging 
of bells which set the footmen and housemaids wild 
with rage. Or perhaps some fine lady would come 
along, and soil her gloves in pulling the bell. Then 
she would break forth in loud exclamations of dis- 
gust, while we, hidden somewhere near by, would 
laugh immoderately at her discomfort. 

One time we managed, with much trouble, to 


214 


Brother and Sister. 


obtain — I do not remember how — the address of all 
the hump-backs in the town. Then we had a circu- 
lar printed inviting Monsieur, Madame, or Made- 
moiselle So-and-so, as the case might be, to come 
on a certain day (a Thursday, of course), at exactly 
three in the afternoon to the Place Bellecour, where 
they would receive an important communication. 
We addressed this letter to all the owners of humps 
of more or less prominence. Considering the natural 
curiosity of the human race, it was reasonable to 
expect that a good many people would respond to 
the invitation. 

Nothing could be more ludicrous than the aspect 
of the Place Bellecour on the afternoon of Thursday, 
December 2d, in the year of grace 1854! Hump- 
backs approached along all the converging streets. 
The first arrivals began to walk up and down, await- 
ing the hour named. Soon watches were pulled out 
and consulted, then there were signs of impatience. 
At length they began to look at one another, ques- 
tion each other, exhibit their invitations and move 
about with ever increasing agitation, and when the 
swelling tide of humps of every sort, size, manner, 
and description gradually made manifest the prac- 
tical joke of which they were the victims, — such a 
concert of exclamations and maledictions as arose! 
The poor creatures called out the police, who could 
only stand helpless, unable to control their laughter. 
No more could the public in general, who were 
amused and interested spectators of this truly re- 


Thk CoUvEge. 


215 


markable scene, hide their mirth. As for us, the 
rascally originators of the impromptu masquerade, 
we were by no means the least gay of the assem- 
blage. 

Another time we ordered a bath at every bath- 
house in town, with directions that they be taken to 
certain of our schoolmates whose particular virtue 
was not cleanliness. You can picture to yourself 
the result. All these “carriers of water,” appearing 
from every direction with their clattering parapher- 
nalia, and pushing up the stairways in spite of pro- 
tests from the janitors; then the subsequent alterca- 
tions with the servants, and the excitement of the 
people of the neighborhood, with all the attendant 
incidents, may be imagined. 

Again — and this was a more ghastly joke — every 
coffin-maker and undertaker in Lyons received a 
notice of the death of a certain Monsieur X. (who 
was very much alive), of a certain street and num- 
ber, with the request to repair at once to that address 
for the purpose of conferring with the family on 
the subject of the funeral arrangements. Imagine 
the result ! But enough of these and similar pranks. 

At Monsieur Robert’s I was the despair of the 
cooks, to whose pots and pans I helped myself for 
the purpose of repeating the chemical experiments 
of Abbe Haron, our Professor. At that time the 
elements of chemistry were taught in the Third 
Grade. To this day I can see big, fat, Victoire, 
the famous head cook of the establishment, going to 


216 


Brother and Sister. 


Lucie with her bitter but perfectly justifiable com- 
plaints of my performances in her department. “And 
the worst part of it is, Madame,” she concluded, 
solemnly, “that it is the Reverend Fathers that teach 
them these dirty tricks !” 

She even went so far one day as to waylay Abbe 
Haron when he went to see Monsieur Robert.- She 
reproached him in stinging terms for the bad habits 
he was instilling in his pupils. The poor priest, to 
whom this philippic was a complete surprise, was 
quite taken aback by the outburst. 

Some time later my capers were the cause of a 
mortifying mistake on the part of the poor woman. 
I was in the habit of pulling the bell with all my 
might when I came home, with the intention of 
making a racket and teasing the maids. One after- 
noon about the time I usually arrived from school, 
a fearful clang resounded through the servants’ 
quarters. “That’s Monsieur Paul again, for sure!” 
cried the irritated cook, and she rushed out in a fury 
to the garden gate, which she flung open with an 
angry exclamation. 

“I’ve caught you this time, you little villain!” 
said she, when what was her horror to find herself 
face to face with Cardinal de Bonald, Archbishop 
of Lyons and Primate of France, who had come in 
state to pay Monsieur Robert a visit. He was ac- 
companied by his private secretary, and it was this 
good priest who had jerked the bell-pull with force 
enough to set the great bell of the cathedral in 
motion. 


Ths Coupon. 


217 


The unfortunate Victoire stood for an instant 
stupefied and speechless. When she came to her 
senses, she dropped down on her knees and ex- 
claimed, “Forgive me, Your Eminence. It is Mon- 
sieur Paul’s fault! Your Eminence rang so loud I 
was sure it was he.” 

The Cardinal laughed heartily at the incident, and 
straightway related it to Monsieur Robert, who pro- 
ceeded to rehearse a number of my other pranks. 
They laughed, but I do not think they should have 
done so, for such mischievousness and idleness fore- 
boded no good. 

It was the custom at Saint-Irenee to prepare for 
the feast of Christmas by a three days’ retreat. This 
year it was given by a Dominican, Father C. His 
instructions made a vivid impression on me. I went 
to see him several times, and God caused these in- 
terviews to be the means of rousing me to serious 
reflection. The good Father pointed out to me the 
danger I was in, and the pitfalls in my path. The 
misdemeanors I have described were not, it is true, 
very grave in themselves, but they diverted my at- 
tention from serious things, engendered a dislike for 
work, and were the occasions of a great many acts 
which were contrary to obedience, charity, and the 
respect due my superiors. I saw, too, that my idle- 
ness and frivolity were a pernicious example to my 
schoolmates, for which I would some day have to 
give account. Above all — and this was a great 
grace — I realized the danger I incurred from 


218 


Brother and Sister. 


promiscuous reading and by associating with certain 
acquaintances of doubtful character. As a conse- 
quence, I experienced real sorrow for my sins and 
a sincere desire to conquer myself, but I knew very 
well that, with my fickle and eager disposition, it 
would be very hard indeed for me to avoid commit- 
ting the same sins again. The good priest encour- 
aged me. He reminded me of the proverb, “God 
helps those who help themselves.” 

“If you were really generous in spirit,” he added, 
“I would propose to you a means, a most excellent 
means, for your advance, but I am very much afraid 
you are too cowardly to adopt it.” 

I blushed up to my eyes. This reproach, to the 
truth of which conscience might have testified, 
seemed to me a grave injustice. 

“You are French?” the priest went on. 

“Yes, Father.” 

“And from what part of France?” 

“From Vendee,” I said, lifting my head proudly. 

“Ah! 'From Vendee! Then you ought to be 
brave indeed. But you must remember that, more 
than all this, you are a Christian, that is, a follower 
of Jesus Christ, who loved you even to the death of 
the Cross. Can I count on you for a really generous 
effort?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“Very well, my child! Since you yourself realize 
that it is the absence of supervision and the com- 
plete freedom of action you enjoy, which are the 


The: Coixege. 


219 


most fruitful causes of your wrong-doing (I had 
frankly laid bare the situation to him), take, as they 
say, heart of grace, and of your own accord ask 
your parents, I mean your brother and sister, who 
stand in their stead, to place you here as a boarder 
after the holidays.” 

I remained silent for several seconds. It was a 
great sacrifice I was asked to make. Only the day 
before, Lucie had come to me in triumph to an- 
nounce that she had pleaded successfully and that I 
would not be sent to boarding-school until after 
Easter. “That means not at all,” she added, with a 
significant smile. 

“I do not like to promise, Father,” I said to the 
priest. “I am afraid I might not keep my word.” 

“You are right not to say you will do it, my boy,” 
said he, “unless you have the firm determination to 
be faithful to your agreement. Think it over this 
evening, and pray that you may decide aright, and 
then come and tell me what you will do.” 

I left the room and went to join my school-fellows 
who were at recreation. I dreaded the sacrifice de- 
manded of me, and sought to avoid thinking of it, 
but the more I tried to put it out of my mind, the 
more persistently I was conscious of it. “You must 
— You ought — It is God’s will.” 

In the chapel, in the study-hall, in the refectory, 
at my play, I was constantly assailed by that one 
thought to which I did not wish to yield, although 
I saw clearly that it was necessary. 


220 


Brother and Sister. 


At that time I had very little faith, and the 
great truths of religion made a profound and whole- 
some impression on my mind. All of a sudden I 
remembered what Marguerite had told me over and 
again, that the greatest difficulties can be overcome 
by prayer. I went into the chapel, and kneeling 
down before the Blessed Sacrament, I begged our 
Lord to give me fortitude and to help me to save 
my soul. Soon I became quite calm, and I saw 
clearly that with God’s grace, I could do that which 
a short time before had seemed impossible. I went 
back to the Dominican Lather, and promised that I 
would ask that same evening to be sent as a boarder 
to Saint-Irenee. He congratulated me upon my 
courage, and told me to thank God for it, and I left 
him with a light heart. I kept my word, and as 
soon as I entered the house I resolutely made known 
my determination. Charles was overjoyed, for he 
had been secretly reproaching himself for his lack 
of firmness, and Lucie said no more about it. The 
matter was settled, and the next day Abbe Lefort, 
in spite of some misgivings which were certainly 
justifiable, agreed to take me as a boarder after the 
Christmas holidays. 

God rewarded the sacrifice I made, and from that 
time on I became a good student. My mental en- 
ergy, no longer wasted on countless frivolities, 
could now be concentrated on serious occupations, 
and, as I had a very good memory and learned easily, 
I soon acquired such a taste for study that I was 


This CoiviySGS. 221 

surprised that I had never before realized its charm 
and its usefulness. 

Thanks to Marguerite, I was prepared to make a 
good showing in the Third Grade, and I was soon 
among the foremost scholars. My kind teachers, 
delighted at this unlooked-for improvement, in every 
manner helped me to persevere in my undertaking. 
As for Marguerite, after all her anxiety and fears 
about my future, she was now happy beyond meas- 
ure, and the letters she wrote me at that time (I 
was so careless as to lose them) reflected the joy 
with which her loving heart was filled. The testi- 
mony of a good conscience made me, too, experience 
quiet satisfaction and profound peace of mind. I 
was happy. It was a real conversion. 

Ah ! Why was I so mad as to wander once more, 
and so far, from the straight and narrow way which 
led to peace in this world and happiness in the next? 
But the time has not yet come to speak of that sad 
epoch of my life. 

I love to look back on my school-days. As a rule, 
children do not appreciate these years, because they 
cannot take into account the trials that await them 
in later life. Of course, school is not without its 
trouble, sorrow, and weariness. Must we not serve 
our apprenticeship for the life before us? And 
what is life but a long warfare? Nevertheless, the 
insignificant suffering of childhood is not to be com- 
pared with that which we must face as we grow 
older, and our rest is broken with grave anxieties, 


222 


Brother and Sister. 


and we are weighed down with responsibilities, and 
have to bear the loss of our loved ones. But children 
can form no adequate idea of such things, and that 
is why the trials of youth seem to them so bitter. 

I do not wish to give the impression by what I 
have just written that I consider, as a fixed rule, 
boarding-school better than day-school. That is not 
my opinion. I am thoroughly convinced that where 
the family is truly Christian, and the parents look 
upon the training of the mind and heart of the child 
as their paramount duty, it would be most unwise 
to withdraw the child from that home influence 
which is so completely in accord with the designs 
of Providence. The father and mother are, both in 
the spiritual order and in the natural order, the first 
instructors of the child. They have, as no one else 
can have, the grace peculiar to their state in life , 
which fits them to direct the unfolding of his intelli- 
gence and the formation of his character, since it is 
primarily to them that God has given the mission 
of guiding him in this temporal life and fitting him 
for eternity. 

If the training received at home is conscientious, 
and the parents are in every respect equal to their 
task, the ideal plan is for the child to acquire the 
necessary instruction without leaving the home 
atmosphere. Let him attend during the day to 
the instruction of his teachers, and study under their 
supervision, so that he may gradually learn to work 
by himself; let his mental and moral faculties be 


Th£ Coix£G£. 


223 


properly exercised, and let him acquire self-control 
by the daily intercourse in school and at play with 
his companions. But when evening comes, let him 
return to his home and to the influence exerted by 
the example of a Christian father and a Christian 
mother. Their lessons are the most efficacious of 
all, for they are indelibly graven upon his heart. 
Thus the teaching at school goes hand in hand with 
that of the home and supplements and develops it. 
This is the truth in theory; but in practice the con- 
trary conclusion is generally reached. 

If the training received from the parents be not 
solidly Christian, which is only too often the case, 
the mother only being pious and the father either 
actually opposed to religion or merely indifferent to 
it, the home atmosphere will not be wholesome for 
the child. If the head of the house takes the name of 
God in vain or ignores Him completely, grave scan- 
dal is most certainly the result, and though it is pos- 
sible that a child might reach the age of twelve or 
thirteen without knowing that his father did not 
attend to his religious duties, still the time would 
surely come when the truth would burst upon him, 
and at that moment his faith would suffer a terrible 
blow . 1 


1 The bad example which blights a young heart is often the work 
of servants, whom parents take into their homes without due pre- 
cautions. Then there is the danger of allowing children free ac- 
cess to the library where they may read books, magazines, news- 
papers and look upon pictures which, to say the least, do not al- 
ways respect the innocence of childhood. 


224 Brother and Sister. 

Many do not resist it. But what is to be said when 
the habits of the father tend to falsify the conscience 
of the child by the example of vice in the person of 
one whom he is bound to respect ? 

Even supposing that the family is all that it should 
be, and the whole household, masters and servants 
alike, live up to their faith, there still remains dan- 
ger from without. There are to be considered the 
people who frequent the house, friends and rela- 
tives, and whether they are a source of danger 
by word or example. Then consider the streets and 
public places of the city in which you live. In our 
days, especially in the large centres, vice flaunts 
itself boldly — for it may do so with impunity — in 
the shop windows, on the walls, in the public parks, 
in the railway stations, in the form of books, maga- 
zines, newspapers and pictures in which neither vir- 
tue nor the faith are respected. In such surround- 
ings a child carefully guarded at home runs the 
greatest risks when he goes out alone. 

When faith and morals cannot be sufficiently safe- 
guarded at home, it becomes a plain duty to send 
the child, if possible, to boarding-school. The par- 
ents should then choose a school which is uncom- 
promisingly Christian, where children are taught 
their duty toward God, and where the discipline is 
in perfect accord with the divine law and the precepts 
of the Church. 

“But,” it may be objected, “evil is to be found 
everywhere. Institutions conducted by priests or 


The: CoivLE )C$. 


225 


religious are not exempt from it. Wherever a large 
number of children are gathered together, there are 
bound to be some who misbehave ; so what is the use 
of taking such pains in the choice of a school ? And 
then if the instruction is enlightened and serious, 
that is the main point. It is good for a child to 
have a knowledge of evil early in life, so that he can 
realize the horror of it and form the habit of resist- 
ing it. That is the best way to strengthen his char- 
acter.” 

Let us argue that point. The intelligence and will 
of the child are undeveloped, otherwise his education 
would be complete, which is contrary to the hypo- 
thesis, since the very question at issue is how 
to conduct this education. Therefore, he has not yet 
come into possession of all his mental and moral 
faculties. Then, also, .original sin must be taken 
into account, which has corrupted his nature and 
which inclines him to evil with all the more force 
in the time of youth, when the newly awakened 
passions seek their objects with an impetuosity only 
to be held in check by a wise and careful education 
and the assistance of divine grace. The young at 
this time pass through that awful crisis which those 
who have the care of souls know so well, and which 
demands the unremitting vigilance of the teacher. 
The child has the right 1 to be protected, to be de- 


i This right, by a necessary correlation, involves a corresponding 
duty of protection on the part of those to whom Providence has con- 
fided the care of the child. 


15 


226 


Brother and Sister. 


fended against himself during those years fraught 
with such peril, because as yet his faculties and 
powers are not complete, and the storm rages with 
greater fury. 

A supervision which removes the occasions of 
grave sin, or, since it is impossible always to avoid 
the danger, provides that help which makes it pos- 
sible to conquer it, and a guidance which rough- 
hews the man in the child by enlightening the intelli- 
gence and strengthening the will, — these are what 
are demanded of an educator. 

This combination of qualities you will never find 
in the “non-sectarian” school, which undertakes to 
be neither for God nor against Him. And why? 
Because a system of morality which leaves out 
God has no foundation, and because it is impos- 
sible to instil sound principles by means of such a 
system. 

It is just as serious an error to suppose that the 
non-sectarian school is not opposed to God. Did not 
Jesus Christ say, “He that is not with Me is against 
Me?” The end of the child, as of the man, is to 
reach heaven, — to save his soul, and you are never 
going to speak to him on the subject! You nullify, 
as a consequence, at the most fateful period of his 
life, this education which you have undertaken to 
give him, since you conceal from him the object for 
which he is in the world, the very reason for his 
existence here below. 

Again, how can the master avoid at times com- 


The College. 


227 


municating to the minds of his pupils his own ideas, 
convictions and desires ? This he does instinctively 
without being conscious of it, otherwise he would 
not be really master. And this is why it is of the first 
importance to choose with care those to whom one 
confides the souls of one’s children. 

Without doubt evil does exist in Catholic schools, 
and even there the eyes and ears of children are as- 
sailed by scandal; but how different it is from that 
which takes places in Godless schools ! 

In the first place, in Catholic schools the moral 
standard is much less frequently and less seriously 
departed from. Vice does not flaunt itself openly, 
because it has not the freedom of the city; it is re- 
garded as an enemy by the directors of the institu- 
tion. What is more, the pupils have easy access 
to the Sacraments, which provide them with 
grace to resist temptation, or with the power, hav- 
ing fallen, to rise again. They can also at any time 
consult their spiritual father for consolation, advice, 
or encouragement. In such surroundings the aver- 
age child is able to preserve his soul. 

In the infidel or merely neutral schools, which are 
practically the same thing, breaches of good con- 
duct, if condemned in theory, are often tolerated in 
practice, sometimes even encouraged (I could cite 
examples of this), provided that widespread scandal 
is avoided. Recourse to the Sacraments is attended 
with such difficulties that one can hardly count on it 
at all, and so also is the regular direction of the con- 


228 


Brother and Sistkr. 


fessor. A child of ordinary virtue in such surround- 
ings will seldom, if ever, persevere . 1 

“This is a long digression,” you may say. Per- 
haps not so far from the point as you imagine. I 
have seen so many sad things happen, so many young 
souls enslaved by vice because they had not been 
protected against it! I have heard so much sense- 
less talk on this subject, and read so many “very 
successful” works which did not even touch upon 
the rudiments of the question ! 

Digression, if you will; I am willing it should be 
called so, if only it attains the object in view, if only 
it bears its fruit. 

A True, it is possible for a soul to perfect itself in the midst of 
corrupt surroundings, but tbis result is seldom brought about, and 
is the effect of a special out-pouring of divine grace, which it were 
presumptuous indeed to count upon if, by our fault, we place our 
children in the midst of such grave dangers. 


CHAPTER XI. 


the: smites of years gone by. 

1 PIAVE kept the memory of Saint Irenee green, 
* and though age has now flecked my hair and 
beard with white, I still find fresh within my heart 
the recollection of the persons and objects belong- 
ing to that happy time. 

It is sweet to render this last tribute of affection 
and gratitude to the worthy preceptors who were 
so faithful in their efforts to bring us up in the way 
we should go and make us true Christians and 
true Frenchmen. They were as ready to sympathize 
in our enjoyments as in our labors, prompt to con- 
sole us in our troubles and revive our failing courage. 
They were indeed educators in the full sense of the 
term. Most of them have already passed to their 
eternal reward. The survivors continue to edify us 
by their zeal and virtue. 

It seems to me that I can still hear the earnest, 
vibrant voice of our rector, as, standing in the pul- 
pit of the chapel, he enthralled us by the charm and 
unction of his eloquence. How many good Chris- 
tians, fervent religious and holy priests were formed 
by his zeal and his doctrine, which were ever 


229 


230 


Brother and Sister. 


clothed in harmonious and finished language ! “De- 
functus adhuc loquitur.” Being dead he yet speak- 
eth, for he lives again in his works, and younger 
generations will drink at this fruitful source of faith 
and love. 

I had the same professor in the third and second 
grades and in rhetoric, Abbe Duval of holy and 
happy memory. What enthusiasm he inspired in his 
pupils for the subjects he taught! Greek, Latin 
poetry, history, music, — he was a man of universal 
attainments. There was such animation in his class, 
such life and spirit! He had our unwavering con- 
fidence. I can see him .now, standing by his desk — 
this was his attitude when he grew particularly ear- 
nest — with his tall figure, luxuriant locks and large 
expressive gestures. We were so fascinated by his 
burning words that sometimes we did not even 
notice that the recreation bell had rung. There was 
a triumph indeed ! 

Like all enthusiastic, high-strung characters, he 
had his periods of depression and disillusion. One 
day he would praise us to the skies, and declare we 
were the finest class in all France and Navarre, and 
the next we “did not know enough to enter the 
sixth grade. Sixth ! Why the eighth were certainly 
better students than we were!” 

He was devoted to Cicero. By this I mean not 
only that he admired the thoughts and the style of 
the classic writer, but even his very person. One day 
some one read to Abbe Duval a description of an 


The SmieES of Years Gone By. 231 

impressive procession which had taken place in Rome 
on the feast of Corpus Christi in the midst of an 
immense concourse of people. “How delighted Cic- 
ero would have been/’ he exclaimed, “to witness 
such a triumph, if he had been a Christian, and had 
lived in our times P’ 

I must confess that the idea of associating Cicero 
with a modern Christian celebration always seemed 
very peculiar to me. 

He had a profound knowledge and keen appre- 
ciation of antiquity, the flavor of which he was able 
to impart. He, was noted for his continual and per- 
fectly spontaneous allusions to mythology. They say 
that in his last illness (I can vouch for the truth of 
this), when his associates tried to persuade him to 
go to bed, he said, in all seriousness, “I can’t, I can’t. 
Go to bed ! Why it would be as impossible for me 
as it was for Jason 1 to obtain the golden fleece!” 
In spite of the seriousness of the situation those pres- 
ent could not help laughing heartily. 

I will never forget a rehearsal he once held with 
the choir, when he tried in vain to get the tenors to 
come in at the right time. The unfortunate fellows 
always began a half-beat too soon or too late. 

“Why, it is very simple,” exclaimed Abbe Duval, 
impatiently, “pay attention, now. I sing the solo in 
the Tanis Angelicus.’ Very well! At the words 
‘servus et humilis,’ you come in. You understand, 
when I say hu, you must come in.” 


1 Chief of the Argonauts’ expedition, 1500 B. C. 


232 


Brother and Sister. 


“O, indeed !” cried the buffoon of the group. “We 
are not all horses and mules, to mind when you shout 
‘Hue !’ ”* 

The good Abbe was not the last to laugh at the 
pun! 

And then in the class-room! It was a treat to 
see him join in our amusement when some one would 
make one of those school-boy blunders which cause 
a laugh worthy of Homer to burst from the other 
students 

One day, when we were still in the third grade, 
one of my classmates was told to read his Latin 
composition. The subject was “The Ram/’ 

“Translate the title,” said Abbe Duval. 

“Male de la brebisse,” commenced the pupil. 

“I don’t understand you,” said the professor. 

“Male de la brebisse,” repeated the boy with con- 
fidence. 

“What are you trying to say?” 

“Male de la brebisse,” said the child for the third 
time, beginning to be a little uneasy. 

“I do not understand a word.” 

“It is in the dictionary, sir!” 

“Bring me your dictionary.’ 

The dictionary was forthcoming, and the boy 
pointed to where the author after the word ram, 
had places in parentheses male de la brebis (male 
of the sheep), the French synonym. The poor boy 
had taken these words for Latin, and had thus writ- 


lAn exclamation used in driving animals. (Translator’s note.) 


The; Smiles oe Years Gone By. 233 

ten and read them. You may judge with what 
success. 

Another time Abbe Duval slowly turned over a 
pile of exercises until he came to one for which he 
was searching. “Listen, gentlemen !” said he. 
“This is the translation which one of the class — 
I shall spare his blushes and refrain from mention- 
ing his name — made of the Latin text we had yester- 
day afternoon. The phrase is worth its weight in 
gold.” 

After the lapse of fifty years, I still have the 
passage by heart, and I do not change a single word. 
This is the way it began : 

“A certain man, sleeping away from home, bal- 
anced by a fall of fratricide, was in good part carried 
off during his slumber.” 

The pupil who made this version was, to be sure, 
not very bright; but he must have had a musical 
ear, for the phrase is quite rhythmic — in French. 

What extract and what author the poor boy had 
thus distorted I do not remember, and I am sure 
it would be very difficult to trace the source with 
naught but this translation as a guide. 

What nonsense we put into the mouths of the an- 
cients in our childhood ! 

I remember that one of my classmates rendered 
these two words of Livy, “Incumbebat pariter,” in 
this fashion : “He lay down with impartiality !” 

The gem which follows was the production of a 
youth in the second class. 


234 


Brother and Sister. 


The opening sentence of Tacitus will be recalled : 
“Opus aggredior opimum casibus “I enter upon an 
epoch fertile in catastrophes.” 

One unfortunate boy thus translated the propo- 
sition: “I commence the work, rich with cheese !” 
The accusative opimum he had made to modify the 
subject of aggredior , and he had confused casus with 
caseus, accident with cheese ! 

The most remarkable feature of it is that even 
intelligent pupils will carelessly make these egre- 
gious mistakes. 

We were very fond of Abbe Duval, and would 
have gone through fire and water for him, but this 
did not prevent us from occasionally making him the 
butt of some of our jokes. 

One day one of the boys, sly wag that he was, 
purposely allowed himself to be relieved of a pretty 
little box of cigarettes, which had escaped the notice 
of the inspector of the college in spite of its label. 
During a lesson in Virgil, Abbe Duval, who had a 
weakness for cigarettes, confiscated the box, put it in 
his pocket, and after class went to the prefect of 
studies, and asked permission to divert to his own use 
the booty captured from the enemy. In the privacy 
of his own room he installed himself comfortably 
in his arm-chair, struck a match, and prepared to 
extract deftly a cigarette from the mother-of-pearl 
case which held them. He pulled, but nothing came. 
He pulled again, and yet again. Suddenly the box 
gave way, a spring flew up, and there, in place of the 


The SmieES oe Years Gone By. 235 


coveted object, was a little, old man in harlequin cos- 
tume, who saluted the disappointed smoker with a 
mocking gesture. 

Abbe Duval laughed until the tears ran down his 
cheeks, but he was determined not to betray the fact 
that he had been duped ; so in the class-room he made 
no allusion whatever to the subject. Unhappily 
for him, his mischievous pupil, who was determined 
to have his money’s worth, accosted him the next 
day as he passed a group of boys at recreation. 

“Monsieur l’abbe,” he asked, “how did you like 
my cigarettes ?” And as Abbe Duval feigned ignor- 
ance, the sly rascal went on, “O, I know. You 
were caught like the rest. I fooled papa in the hol- 
idays, too.” 

I am lingering over these reminiscences which are, 
perhaps, interesting only to myself, but I cannot 
close the chapter without some reference to Abbe 
Haron, our professor in physics and chemistry. He 
was a noble-hearted man, so devoted to his pupils 
that he wore himself out in their service. More- 
over, he was a type. 

I must give his account of how he obtained his 
bachelor’s degree. 

“Up to the age of twenty-three,” he said to us 
candidly, “I was a carpenter. It was not until then 
that I decided to become a priest. I took the course 
in Greek and Latin rather hurriedly, as you may 
imagine, both because of my age, and because I spent 
so much time on physics and mathematics, of which 


236 


Brother and Sister. 


I was passionately fond. In consequence, when the 
time came for me to take the bachelor’s examina- 
tions, I was by no means prepared for the one in 
literature, but the Bishop desired that we take them. 

“So I had myself entered, and when the fateful 
day arrived, I presented myself in the hall, and soon 
set to work on my translation. There were many 
things which I did not remember, but there were 
two men near me who looked as if they were old 
hands at it, and so I glanced first to the right and 
then to the left, and when I saw anything which 
seemed reasonable, I put it down. And how do you 
think it turned out? Well, I passed, and they were 
both rejected!” 

And the good man burst into his customary hearty 
laugh. 

His fondness and admiration for the science of 
chemistry were unbounded, as the following inci- 
dent will show. 

He had just dictated a lesson on the subject. One 
of the class who had not studied hard enough, and 
who was afraid he would be punished, had managed 
to hide his note-book under his coat, and when the 
demonstration was over he asked permission to go 
out. It was granted, but as he crossed the court the 
professor followed him with a suspicious glance. 
In a few minutes the boy returned and sat down 
at his place. Abbe Haron fixed his eyes upon him, 
and marching straight up to him, pulled open his 
coat with a jerk, seized the corpus delicti and flung 
it into the middle of the room. 


The Smiles oe Years Gone By. 237 


I well remember the scene. Huge Abbe Haron, 
red with anger, struggled to speak but could not 
utter a sound. At last, when his emotion had some- 
what abated, he exclaimed, still trembling with rage, 
“It is unpardonable, unworthy, infamous, incon- 
ceivable, it is ” another word with the negative 

prefix did not present itself. At last, after a long 
pause, he concluded in a solemn and majestic tone, 
“You are not worthy to study chemistry !” 

Was not that an effective climax? 

As the result of my first year at school I received 
at the closing exercises six first and six second 
prizes. I was warmly congratulated by the rector 
and all my teachers. This was some compensation 
for the delinquencies of my first term. Early next 
morning Charles and I took the train for Paris, 
and that night at eleven o’clock Charles saw me off 
for Angers. He was obliged to return at once to 
Lyons. 

I was as happy as I could be. I was on my way 
to my dear Guitte, my elder sister, whom I loved 
as a mother, to Aunt Dumoulin, Mesnil, the Hutterie, 
old Rose, Cillette and Lexis, Tom and Fanfan, and 
all the familiar objects which absence had but served 
to render more dear. What excess of joy! And 
then Lucie, as a reward for my diligence at school, 
had given me that same morning a fine double- 
barelled Lefaucheux, which was the fashion in hunt- 
ing pieces at that period, and a superb two-year old 
setter, thoroughly trained. She was to be called 


238 


Brother and Sister. 


Diana. That was already decided. The gun reposed 
in the rack of the railway carriage, and every minute 
or two I looked up to see if it were safe. Likewise 
at every stop I leaned out of the door to see that the 
guards did not hand my dog over to a stranger. 

In my pocket was a letter to Marguerite from 
Abbe Lefort. I learned afterwards that in it he 
confided to her the result of his observations of my 
character. The substance of it was this : “He is a 
hard student, sincerely pious, but has strong pas- 
sions and an intense nature. He will probably go 
to extremes either of good or of evil.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


BROKEN HEARTS. 

piVE o’clock in the morning! “Angers! Ten 
■ minutes’ stop!” shouted the guard, opening the 
doors of the carriages. 

“Ten minutes’ stop! What are you talking 
about?” I thought to myself with delight. “Two 
months and four days’ stop, you mean ! School does 
not open until the fifth of October.” 

In an instant I had eagerly scanned the faces of 
the people standing on the platform. There was 
Marguerite waiting for me. I jumped out of the 
carriage, ran to her, and threw my arms around her 
neck. It was ten months since I had seen her, and 
we had never been separated before. 

“Come,” said Marguerite, after a moment. “They 
are all in a hurry to see you at home. I came over 
yesterday morning. Our wagon is here. The ex- 
pressman will bring your trunk later. We could not 
take it in the phaeton anyway. Let’s go!” 

I followed her out of the station, my gun on my 
back, carrying my valise in one hand and pulling 
Diana along with the other. She was still bewil- 
dered by her long imprisonment in the baggage car. 


239 


240 


Brother and Sister. 


The little wagon with Fanfan was standing outside. 
The intelligent animal knew me, and pushed up, 
harnessed as he was, to be petted. 

In less than no time I had settled my dog on some 
straw in the bottom of the wagon, and jumped up 
to the seat where Marguerite had already taken her 
place. She had taken the left hand side so as to let 
me drive, just as she used to do when she was re- 
warding me for good behavior. 

How good it was to be together once more, we 
two, little brother and big sister! 

“Are you ready, Marguerite ?” 

“Yes. Drive on!” 

“Get up, Fanfan!” 

And off we flew like the wind. It seemed as if 
Fanfan was in haste to carry his young master back 
to his own country. Woods, fields, and meadows 
passed by as fast as lightning. I think we must have 
reached Mesnil in an hour and a quarter. 

Meantime Marguerite inspected me with satisfac- 
tion. She found me taller, broader and more sturdy, 
but what rejoiced her heart most was that she saw 
I was simple-minded and gay as of old. 

“This is my same Paul,” she said, “with his baby 
laugh and his big eyes, which look you square in 
the face.” 

I was very proud because I was now taller than 
she. 

“You will have a cavalier, now,” I said, laughing. 
“Whenever you like we can go out to parties.” 


Broken Hearts. 


241 


But here we are at Saint-Laurent. Marguerite 
wanted to stop a few moments to show me to our 
old pastor, who was delighted to see his altar-boy 
once more. I was glad to go into the church for a 
minute. There was so much to thank God for! 
Then we got in again, and swept on, and in a few 
minutes we were home. 

Hurrah! Here we are! The avenue, the mead- 
ows, the Gemme and Mesnil! 

At last we are home! I jumped down, gave my 
hand to Marguerite, and then threw my arms around 
Aunt Dumoulin, who had insisted on waiting until I 
came before setting about her daily occupations. 

“How d’ye do, Aunt ; Rose ; Cillette. Well, Lexis ! 
How d’ye do, Tom? How d’ye do, everybody ! Here 
I am at last and for two whole months.” 

When I had been kissed, examined and measured 
to see how much I had grown, I was led into the 
dining-room, where breakfast was waiting — and 
such a breakfast! I would be eating still if I had 
been obliged to do justice to all the viands. And 
then I resumed once more my free out-door life, 
which soon brought back to my cheeks the color 
temporarily banished by the hot weather in Lyons 
and the long railway journey. 

Excursions of all sorts, on foot and in the car- 
riage, sometimes with Marguerite and sometimes 
without, hunting and fishing expeditions even with 
old Courteau, whom I was allowed to see now that 
I was good once more, — all these and many other 


16 


242 


Brother and Sister. 


pleasures combined to make a glorious vacation, of 
which, however, there is little to tell except that it 
passed with whirling rapidity. 

I should mention an event which took place early 
in September, and which was of the gravest import- 
ance to Marguerite and to me. On that occasion 
my sister gave me a proof of the truly heroic efforts 
of which her devotion to me was capable. 

It is to this sacrifice of hers, I am convinced, that 
I owe the very special grace which was one day to 
enable me to seek again the narrow path, and work 
out my salvation, if God, in His great mercy so 
willed it. 

For some time past many offers of marriage had 
been received at Mesnil. Although my sister’s for- 
tune was small — insignificant indeed — her rare and 
solid virtues, unusual mental attainments, amiable 
disposition and the delicate charm of her appearance 
and of her manner made her most attractive, and 
many a mother ardently desired that her son might 
win her as his life’s companion. Marguerite had 
always refused to entertain any of these proposi- 
tions, and had responded that she was not thinking 
of marriage. At the time of which I speak she was 
nearly twenty-four, which led people to suppose that 
she would remain single, “wait on St. Catherine,” as 
we put it. 

The morning of the first of September — I well 
remember the date — I was up in my room at about 
half-past seven, getting ready to go out hunting, 


Broken Hearts. 


243 


when I heard carriage wheels on the gravel of the 
avenue. I looked out the window to see who could 
be coming at such an early hour, and to my amaze- 
ment a coach, decorated with a coat-of-arms and 
drawn by two superb thoroughbreds, drew up be- 
fore the door. Madame de Saint- Julien got out, and 
went at once to Marguerite’s room. The latter had 
just returned from Saint-Laurent, where she had 
been to Mass. As the countess often came to see my 
sister, I thought no more of it except to wonder at 
her choosing such an early hour, and whistling to 
Diana I started off to play havoc among the part- 
ridges. 

When I returned just before noon, I saw the car- 
riage going down the avenue of chestnuts and turn- 
ing off toward Aulnaie. 

“That is strange!” I said to myself. “The 
Comtesse de Saint- Julien was here nearly five hours ! 
There must be something up, evidently.” 

Going up to my room, I met Marguerite coming 
out of hers. Her eyes were red, and she seemed 
much distressed. 

“What is the matter?” I said. “What is troub- 
ling you?” 

Her only answer was to clasp me in her arms and 
kiss me, at the same time bursting into tears. I was 
very much mystified and alarmed, but I dared not 
ask any more questions. Besides, the luncheon bell 
had rung, and my aunt was waiting for us. 

Marguerite ate very little, and I noticed she had 


244 


Brother and Sister. 


great trouble in controlling herself. As soon as the 
meal was over she went to her room and locked the 
door. I went up a few minutes later to ask if she 
were sick and if she wanted anything. Without 
opening the door she answered that she was well, 
but she wanted to be alone for a while. “Try and 
get a rabbit for me/’ she said. I could see that she 
wanted me out of the way. 

“All right,” I answered, “I’ll go out,” and I made 
ready to start off again. It was still so very hot, 
however, that I made up my mind to wait until later, 
and meantime I set to work to prepare some cart- 
ridges. 

At three o’clock, just as I was about to start, what 
was my amazement to see the countess’ carriage drive 
up the avenue at a round pace ! Madame de Saint- 
Julien got out, and to my surprise she was followed 
by the pastor of Saint-Laurent. They asked for 
Marguerite, and Rose went in all haste to inform her. 
Soon I heard my sister open her door, and go down 
to receive her visitors. Much puzzled, I ran down 
to Rose in the kitchen. 

“Do you know,” I asked, “what all this means?” 

“It means that we will have a fine wedding here 
before long, Monsieur Paul,” said the good woman, 
clapping her old, wrinkled hands joyfully. “You 
will be coming back from Lyons with Monsieur 
Charles and his sweet little lady to see it ! You’d bet- 
ter be waxing your pumps, Monsieur Paul, for 
there’ll soon be dancing. Mamselle has always said 


Broken Hearts. 


245 


‘No’ until now, but I am thinking that now she will 
say a big ‘Yes,’ or I am much mistaken.” 

“I suppose the old woman is right,” I said to my- 
self. “The countess loves Marguerite as if she 
were her own daughter, and she wants her to marry 
her son.” 

I think I have said that Monsieur Rene, who was 
about Charles’ age, was the only child of the Comte 
and Comtesse de Saint-Julien. He was a lieutenant 
in the cuirassiers stationed at Nantes, and had just 
taken a month’s leave of absence, which he was 
spending with his parents at Aulnaie. 

At this juncture I was strongly tempted by curios- 
ity. I wanted very much to know what was going 
on. I knew well that what I was about to do was not 
right, and I did not decide upon it all at once, but 
slowly crept upstairs toward my own room, which 
it will be remembered, opened into Marguerite’s. 
The door had been left open a little, and I could hear 
all that transpired without letting my presence be 
known. I was supposed to be out hunting, and they 
did not scruple to speak out loud. I still hesitated, 
but at last curiosity got the better of me, and I went 
into my room on tip-toe. 

Madame de Saint-Julien was speaking. There 
was no more doubt about it; she was urging my 
sister to accept Monsieur Rene’s hand in marriage. 

“You may rest assured, my little Marguerite,” she 
was saying, “that you will be happy with us. Mon- 
sieur de Saint-Julien is truly attached to you, and 


246 


Brother and Sister. 


sincerely admires you, and as for me, you know I 
could not love you more if you were my own child. 
Of that I have given you many proofs. Do not allow 
your delicacy to be offended by the thought that some 
people would call this a mesalliance for Rene. It is 
true that we have a considerable fortune, and you 
have nothing, or almost nothing. Our position in 
society is higher than yours, if you will. But your 
fine qualities (let me speak freely this once, dear 
child, even if I do hurt your modesty), your fine 
character, all the lovable traits of your nature and 
that certain something about you which makes every- 
one love you, and the great happiness you will bring 
to all three of us in becoming one of the family, — 
all this much more than makes good any fancied 
discrepancy, and it will be you who are conferring 
the favor. If you were only to see my poor Rene. 
He has been miserable for eighteen months, — ever 
since you refused him the first time. He rarely 
speaks to me on the subject, for he is exquisitely 
reserved by nature, and shrinks from displaying 
his feelings, but I can see that he feels the dashing of 
his hopes more than I can tell, and I fear the conse- 
quences of a second refusal. Here, dear Marguerite, 
let me read you the letter my poor boy has written to 
you. He has made me his messenger and his advo- 
cate, and I know that he did himself great violence 
when he wrote these lines. He is pushed to the last 
extremity.” 

And the countess began to read Monsieur Rene’s 
•letter. 


Broken Hearts. 


247 


I do not know what became of this letter, and I no 
longer remember the exact terms in which it was 
couched, but I give the general sense of it. 

The poor young man besought my sister to believe 
in the depth and sincerity of his affection. “My 
wealth is nothing,” he wrote, “and I am the one who 
will be under everlasting obligations if you will give 
me your heart. Do not be afraid that I will try to 
change the purpose and manner of your life. I know 
that you live for God and the poor, and I will 
scrupulously respect the occupations to which you 
devote your time, leaving you full freedom to go 
wherever your charity directs your steps and only 
asking that I may sometimes be your companion, 
and learn from you how to help the unfortunate. 
Excuse the awkward manner in which I express my- 
self, Mademoiselle,” he added, “I could face my 
squadron with far less timidity. If you dread so- 
ciety,” he said, further, “you are alarmed without 
cause. I will be only too glad to break with any 
associations which would not be in accord with the 
manner of life you elect.” 

Then Monsieur Rene spoke of me: “I fear very 
much that your brother is the chief obstacle to my 
happiness. You have devoted your life to the child, 
and I am told that you believe that it would be break- 
ing the vow you made at your mother’s death-bed, 
were you to allow any other interest to interfere 
with your care for him. Be reassured on this point. 
I am confident I can relieve your anxiety. I swear 


248 


Brother and Sister. 


to you before God to look upon Paul as my oldest 
son, and to make him joint heir to my fortune with 
the children it may please Providence to send us. I 
hope this explanation will satisfy you in every re- 
spect, and that the Good Lord will inspire you not 
to break my heart by a second refusal. If, however, 
you are not to be moved, I shall not put an end to 
myself. I know my duty as a Christian. But my 
life will be a blank, and I shall not know where to 
turn. In a short time I shall receive my captaincy, 
and be transferred to another regiment. I shall then 
ask to be sent to the Crimea on the next transport. 
Happy for me if God permits a Russian shell or bul- 
let to put an end to my misery, so that by dying in 
the service of my country I may end a life which 
without you to me is unbearable.” 

I heard Marguerite sobbing. Then she said, “I 
cannot! I cannot! O, how you are making me 
suffer!” 

“Why, my dear Marguerite,” said Abbe Aubry, 
urging her in his turn, “you exaggerate your obliga- 
tions. I know very well it is th$ delicacy of your 
conscience which prevents you from accepting so 
suitable an offer. Believe me, my chHd, you have 
fulfilled your duty to Paul a hundred times over; 
and moreover, from the time that Monsieur Rene 
adopts him as his son he does not cease to be your 
child. He acquires another guardian, or rather, a 
father. What more could you wish! 

“And then, think well, my daughter, you will be- 


Broken Hearts. 


249 


come a person of power and influence. Ten or 
twelve millions is the amount at which the fortune 
of the Comte de Saint- Julien is estimated. I do not 
speak thus to tempt you with the attractions of 
money. That would indeed be most unworthy of a 
priest. But, consider, you who do so much even 
with your limited means, what would you be able 
to accomplish with this immense fortune at your dis- 
posal ? The more so that your husband and his par- 
ents could have no greater happiness than that of 
making all your benevolent ideas a reality and dis- 
pensing charity through your hands. No, my child ; 
no, Marguerite! you have not the right to refuse!” 

Marguerite was still silent. 

“My child, my dear, dear daughter,” cried the 
countess, “take pity on us ! Surely you are not going 
to drive my son away from me! You see what he 
says. Unless you accept him, he will leave for the 
Crimea !” 

At last my sister spoke. Her voice was altered 
and trembling, and how and then she was interrupted 
by her tears. 

“Oh,” she said, with great effort. “You do not 
understand. You have never understood. God alone 
knows what I am undergoing! I know that duty 
does not demand this of me, but sometimes one must 
go farther than mere duty. What the future of my 
brother will be I do not know, but I fear it will be 
full of dangers for a soul whose passions are so in- 
tense that they will certainly lead him into constant 


250 


Brother and Sister. 


temptations. Perhaps, in order that he may have 
the grace necessary to save his soul another must 
always be ready to suffer and even, if necessary, to 
die for him. The day my parents died, and I was 
left to take the place of a mother to the child, I 
offered up my life and all my happiness in this world, 
if that should be in God’s eyes the price of Paul’s 
eternal salvation. But were I to become a wife and 
mother, my heart would be divided, for I know I 
should love my husband and my children with all my 
strength. Paul would no longer hold the first place 
in my affections, and if his soul were in danger I 
would no longer, — it would no longer be right for 
me to die for him, because I would be bound by 
other and more sacred ties.” 

“What a treasure we are losing!” exclaimed 
the countess. “O my boy, my poor Rene!” 

“We must submit,” said Abbe Aubry. 

At this point I could restrain myself no longer, 
and suddenly opening the door, I ran to Marguerite 
and threw my arms around her. “All this for me,” 
I cried, “never, never ! I would be the most ungrate- 
ful brother in the world if I let you make such a 
sacrifice. Do, dear Guitte, say, ‘Yes,’ and make us 
all happy. I ask you in father’s and mother’s name. 
They look down on us now from heaven, and they 
know you have truly kept your promise. Do not be 
afraid for me. I swear to you I will always be a 
faithful Christian, and you will never have to worry 
about my soul. Nozv you will say, ‘Yes’; won’t 
you ?” 


Broken Hearts. 


251 


I can say with perfect truth that the idea of being 
heir to millions played no part with me. I knew 
no more about three per cents than a Huron. To 
live in the country and to have a dog and a gun and 
plenty of ammunition was to me the height of bliss ; 
so my interference was entirely disinterested. 

So there were the Abbe Aubry, Madame de Saint- 
Julien and I all pleading. The poor countess made 
one last attempt. “My daughter,” she said, “take 
pity on my son Rene!” 

Marguerite shuddered as if cut to the heart. 
“Speak to me no more of Rene!” she exclaimed. 
“Don’t you see that I love him and that my heart 
struggles for him against itself with unspeakable 
violence? Could you not see that when I stayed 
away from Aulnaie and deprived myself as often as 
I could of your kindness, it was in order to protect 
myself against the attachment which I saw was be- 
ginning and which would be in the way of my ac- 
complishing my task? But how could I guard 
against the great qualities and noble character of 
Monsieur Rene which attracted me and aroused my 
sympathy in spite of myself? And because of all 
this two hearts are broken for always.” Then, 
drawing me to her and clasping me to her heart, she 
said, “Here is my son! I will never have any 
other !” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


the: old people: pass away. 

T HIS morning, December 31st, 1900, the dawn 
of the new century, I was thinking sadly, as I 
sat by the fireside, of all the relatives and friends 
who are gone. The list is a long one. How many 
have departed this life since I entered upon it! First 
of all, my father and mother stricken by the blow 
which made me an orphan at the age of six; then 
my Aunt Dumoulin, our good doctor, old Rose, 
Courteau, the Ducoudrays, — and my dear Marguer- 
ite. Ah ! that loss was the most bitter of all my life. 
I have not yet recovered from it. Later Charles 
and Lucie passed away soon after a dreadful misfor- 
tune, and left me their nine orphans. This is the 
family that the Good Lord gave me, and the only 
one I ever had. Then soon I was to see Jeanne die — 
brave, sweet child ! — gone to heaven with a smile on 
her lips; and next Hippolyte, who fell at Loigny 
when only sixteen, with the badge of the Sacred 
Heart upon his breast, like his ancestors of ’93, and 
then so many dear and faithful friends, good Abbe 
Haron, Abbe Lefort, Abbe Duval, our beloved mas- 
ters. “The dead pass quickly.” My turn will come 
soon! 


252 


The Old People Pass Away. 


253 


In the month of June, 1856, while I was finishing 
my second year at Saint-Irenee, I heard of my aunt’s 
death. She had just completed her eighty-first year. 
A soldier to the last, she did not take to her bed 
until the two last days, and she died perfectly con- 
scious and full of faith and Christian fortitude, but 
without losing, even at the very end, that somewhat 
rough originality which was her most marked char- 
acteristic. 

I was reading again this morning the letter in 
which Marguerite told me of her death. I subjoin 
some extracts. 

Mesnil, Wednesday, June 25, 1856. 

My Dear Child: This letter will bring you very sad 
news. God has just taken to Himself our dear aunt after 
only two days’ illness. She was very tired on Monday after 
the hay harvest at Dervalliere. On her return to Mesnil, 
she had a sudden chill followed by very high fever. With 
much difficulty I persuaded her to go to bed. As her con- 
dition seemed to me serious, I sent for her old friend the 
doctor, who came at once, and found that she had inflam- 
mation of the lungs. 

We took heroic means to check the progress of the dis- 
ease, but in spite of all we could do. Aunt Dumoulin failed 
rapidly. God had decreed that this should be the end of 
her earthly pilgrimage. This morning the dear soul was 
nearly gone. She was conscious up to the end, and was 
able to speak. She knew she was dying, and she prepared 
herself calmly and in that whimsical way of hers which 
you know so well. Yesterday she sent for the pastor, and 
he gave her the last Sacraments. Abbe Aubry was very 
much moved. When he asked her if anything troubled her, 
she said, “No, I am quite easy. I know I am not worth a 
farthing, but I trust in God’s infinite mercy.” 


254 


Brother and Sister. 


“You forgive from the bottom of your heart all who 
have ever injured you?” 

“Yes, from the bottom of my heart; even the Blues who 
killed my father and brother. I wish them a place in 
heaven. But,” she added, and a smile passed over her face, 
“I don’t think I will walk over that way very often.” 

In the morning she made me read her will, which 
leaves all her property to you and me . 1 This includes 
Mesnil and some investments of small value. She lays 
down in your case this strange condition: that you send 
to the Comte de Chambord every winter a basket of game, 
as she herself has done, you know, for many years. 

By the way, I must confess that I did not feel 
myself in honor bound to execute this condition, 
and I am confident that the Count has borne me no 
ill will in consequence. I had some masses said 
every year about Michaelmas for the intention of the 
King, a practice which I continued up to the time of 
the Prince’s death, and I am sure that by this means 
I complied in a more effective manner with the last 
will of my worthy Aunt Dumoulin. 

But I must go on with Marguerite’s letter. 

This, Wednesday, morning (she continued) she asked 
me to send for the doctor. “I know very well there is 
nothing he can do,” she said, with a smile; “that is not 
what I want him for.” I sent Lexis at once to ask Doctor 
Durand to come over to Mesnil. He came immediately. 
When he came into the room my aunt said, “Ah, Francois, 
will you soon be thinking of preparing for death, too? You 
have not much more time, by poor old friend. A few more 
turns of the wheel and your cart is in the ditch; and if you 
end like a heathen, as you have lived, you may be quite 

1 Charles had urged my aunt to make Marguerite and me her 
sole heirs. 


Ths Old People Pass Away. 


255 


sure you will burn in the very bottom of hell. For there 
is a hell, Francois; there is a hell as sure as I am going to 
die in a few hours. Think of your soul, and don’t send it 
to broil in hell for all eternity, while the rest of us are 
happy with the good Lord. Your father and mother were 
not idiots, were they? And all the priests and bishops, 
and our Holy Father, the Pope, and the Doctors of the 
Church, and the Saints, have more brains than you and I. 
Very well, then. Submit to the teachings of the Church. 
Listen to the advice of a dying woman, who loves you very 
much, though she has said many foolish things to you in 
her life. Some of them you deserved, too!” 

Poor Doctor Durand was very much moved. He fell on 
his knees by my aunt’s bed to pray. The tears ran down 
his face, and he sobbed aloud. “Catherine,” he said, at 
last, “Catherine, will you pray for me?” 

“Well, of course I will, you old rascal! This is not 
what you lack! Go away, now, and leave me with my little 
Marguerite. She is going to say the prayers for the 
dying.” 

The doctor went out of the room, and as I followed him 
he said to me, much softened, “My child, I am afraid you 
will have to teach me the catechism again.” 

This made me so happy, for I had been very much 
afraid that this dear old friend would slip away from us! 

I went back then to Aunt Dumoulin, and said the prayers 
for the recommendation of the soul. She was evidently 
sinking. I think that for a half hour she was unconscious. 
Suddenly she came to herself and tried to raise herself up, 
and looking at the picture of the Sacred Heart which I 
had placed near her bed, she exclaimed in a strong voice, 
“For Religion and for the King!” It was the battle-cry 
of Vendee. A few seconds more and she had gone. 

I have prepared her body for the grave with the help of 
old Rose, who weeps as if her heart would break. Just 
think! For fifty-five years they were together, and were 
quarreling from morning until night, but they were at the 
same time devoted to one another. The funeral will be on 


256 


Brother and Sister. 


Friday, day after to-morrow. Don’t fail to go to Holy 
Communion for your aunt, and pray for Doctor Durand’s 
conversion. 

Some days later I received a second letter. 

Mesnil, July 8, 1856. 

My Dear Paul:— To-day I have good news to tell. I 
think our dear aunt must have been praying a great deal 
for her old friend. However that may be, the day after the 
funeral, that is, a week ago Saturday, Doctor Durand came 
over to see me. “My dear,” said he, simply, “I want to re- 
turn to God, after forgetting Him for so long, but I do not 
even know my prayers. I am more ignorant than the 
children in the catechism class. I have come to ask you to 
take charge of my soul.” I was beside myself with joy. 
Then and there he learned his first lesson, and since then 
I have been over to see him every morning. He is as trust- 
ful and tractable as a child, and it is a delight to see what 
good dispositions he has. Prayer is indeed all powerful! 
Remember this truth all your life long, dear Paul! Some 
day you will need to apply it. There is every reason to 
hope that our dear friend is now prepared to meet his 
God. This afternoon he made his general confession, and 
received absolution, and to-morrow morning we are to re- 
ceive Holy Communion together at Abbe Aubry’s Mass at 
seven o’clock. Just think of it, the poor soul has not been 
to the Sacraments, so he says, since 1792, that is, for sixty- 
four years! You must help us to thank Almighty God for 
his reconciliation. 

For several days I have been teaching the doctor how to 
make his morning meditation, and it is really wonderful to 
see what facility he has for the exercise. And he is so 
utterly unconscious of his aptitude in the matter! Not 
long ago I found him very much depressed. “My dear,” 
said he, “I never shall be able to pray in the right way. 
You know you told me to meditate on death. I did my 
best to keep my mind on it, but there! Hardly had I 
made the sign of the cross when I saw again at a glance all 
the sins of my life, so many and so great, and then I 


The; Old People: Pass Away. 


257 


thought how this evening the Good Lord would wipe them 
all away, and make my soul as white as snow, and I began 
to weep and weep, and forget all about my meditation. 
‘Pshaw!’ I said to myself, ‘What was it Marguerite told 
me?’ Then I began over again, but it was no use. In half 
a minute I was thinking of Our Lord on the Cross, and the 
thought that He had died like that for me made me forget 
everything you said. You see how it is. I always have 
distractions.” I told him he was very fortunate to have 
that sort of distractions, that most people did not have that 
kind, and that many whom I knew would be very glad if 
they could pray as he did. 

I cannot find the last part of this letter in which 
Marguerite describes the childlike joy with which 
the old man received the Holy Communion. 

He was wise indeed to lose no time in regulating 
his spiritual affairs. A few days later he had a 
stroke of apoplexy, which carried him off in half an 
hour. 

Not long after Aunt Dumoulin’s death Marguer- 
ite decided to move back to the dear Hutterie, round 
which were twined so many tender memories ; so we 
established ourselves there once more soon after my 
vacation began, in August, 1856. We were very 
glad to be back again. Everything reminded us of 
our parents and our childhood days, and then the 
situation was so pleasant, the view so cheerful, and 
the landscape so fair! How sweet it was to fall 
asleep listening to the murmur of the Gemme, which 
danced through our meadows, and seemed constantly 
to turn back upon its pathway as if for one more 
glance at the Hutterie before leaving it behind for- 
ever. 


17 


258 


Brother and Sister. 


From our new abode it was as easy as from 
Mesnil to reach Saint-Laurent, Angers, or even 
Saint-Florent, if we crossed the Loire. One great 
advantage was that the house was so much larger 
and more conveniently arranged than Mesnil that 
we could easily accommodate Charles, Lucie and 
their four children with the nurses; so they came 
and spent the last part of September with us, and I 
returned with them to Lyons, where I commenced 
my year of Rhetoric. 

Marguerite was left alone at the Hutterie with 
the household of Mesnil, who never would have been 
willing to leave her. In fact, there was never any 
thought of it. She might have been dull, if she had 
not had so many things to do, but as it was there was 
no time for it. God and her neighbor took up all 
her days. 

During the course of this school year God called 
to Himself, one by one, many of our faithful friends. 
The first to go was old Rose, who died a few months 
after my aunt, assisted in her agony by her devoted 
young mistress, whom she loved so dearly. A little 
later it was old Courteau, who had a happy death, 
and whom Marguerite prepared for his end. The 
two Ducoudrays, faithful Christians all their lives, 
“passed by the way the others passed,” to use the 
melancholy expression of old Comines . 1 


1 “II (Louis XI) eut beau faire venir Saint Francois de Paule du 
fond de la Calabre pour qu’il lui rallongeat la vie, il fallait qu’il 
passat par ou les autres sont passes. 


The: Old Pe:opl£ Pass Away. 


259 


Death seemed to respect our good pastor alone. 
His failing strength, however, made it impossible 
for him to take charge of the parish of Saint-Laurent 
any longer, and he humbly gave place to his succes- 
sor, and retired to a little house near the church, 
where he continued for several years more his life 
of prayer and good works. He died at the age of 
ninety-five, preserving his mental powers to the end. 

With this exception, the old people passed stead- 
ily away ; and if I be permitted to pay a last tribute 
to more humble beings — I mean the faithful animals, 
friends, and servants of our youthful years — I will 
mention that old Tom came to his end, at the age of 
fourteen or fifteen years, one winter night when they 
forgot to shut his kennel. 

As for the little horse, he kept his strength and 
spirit for some time longer; but in the summer of 
1858 he began to show signs of wear, and lost his 
speed and vigor. Marguerite had to get another 
mount, and only used the faithful Fanfan for easy 
distances in the neighborhood, more to exercise him 
than to get any real service out of him. 

The miller of Saint-Laurent came one - day and 
offered us a hundred francs for him. He said the 
beast was of no further use to us, and he himself 
could make him work to the very last. We indig- 
nantly refused his proposition, and to the end of 
his days Fanfan drew his pension in the shape of 
fresh water, a full manger, and a warm stable, to 


260 


Brother and Sister. 


say nothing of many pettings. He died a few months 
after his friend, the Newfoundland. 

I now come to speak of the most crucial period of 
my life, a time which has left behind it everlasting 
remorse, though I firmly hope that God has par- 
doned me, and established me once more in His 
grace. Then I still have to tell of the last years of 
my dear sister, of how I was left at the age of 
twenty-six with nine orphans to rear, and how God 
helped me to accomplish my task. 


PART IV. 

THE RANSOM OF A SOUL. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

HOW A BATTLE IS LOST. 

A T THE close of the school year 1858-59, I com- 
** pleted my course at Saint Irenee, where I had 
been for five years. I had taken my two degrees, 
Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Sciences, and as I 
had barely entered my eighteenth year, it would have 
been easy for me to gain admission to the govern- 
ment schools. Charles, who had just been promoted 
to the rank of lieutenant-colonel in recognition of his 
gallant services on the battlefield of Magenta, would 
have liked to have me enter the army. This career 
had, indeed, been marked out for me by several of my 
family, first of all by my father. I admired and do 
still admire our army, which is necessary for the de- 
fense of the country and of society, and I have al- 
ways, — thank God! — been ready to take arms and 
join the ranks of our soldiers when the honor or inde- 
pendence of our fair land was menaced. Yes, I fer- 
vently love and admire our gallant army, and I 
share the indignation of all loyal Erenchmen at the 
monstrous conspiracy, hatched by Freemasonry and 
kept alive by foreign gold, whose object was the 
261 


262 


Brother and Sister. 


destruction of our military institutions. But, if in 
those days as now I loved the army, garrison life, 
the life of the soldier in time of peace, had no at- 
tractions for me. 

Marguerite would have liked to have me at home, 
supervising the cultivation of our land and manag- 
ing our little patrimony, which, with some trifling 
exceptions, consisted of Mesnil and the Hutterie, 
about two hundred and twenty acres in all. 

That would have been all very well as long as 
there were only we two, but when I should attain to 
manhood and have a family of my own to support, 
how was I to keep up an establishment and suitably 
educate my children — especially if they should be 
numerous — with such limited resources? I was 
urged by necessity to strike out for myself, and to 
do this I must leave Anjou, at least for a time. 

Marguerite realized the force of these arguments, 
but she was very apprehensive concerning the wel- 
fare of my soul when she thought of my having to 
live alone so far away from her and so young to be 
left to my own devices ; nevertheless, she re- 
signed herself to the separation as inevitable, and 
made no attempt to alter my decision. So it was 
agreed that on All Saints’ Day that same year, 1859, 
I should take up my abode in Paris and commence 
my law studies. I had not as yet any precise idea 
as to what I should do later on, but a knowledge of 
the law was useful in many occupations, and I con- 
sidered it wise to prepare myself by this preliminary 


How a Battik Is Lost. 


263 


study, since it might assist me to more than one 
opening. To tell the truth I was ambitious, — who 
is not at seventeen? — and I had thoughts of enter- 
ing public life and making a name for myself. In 
imagination I already saw. myself mount the rostrum, 
always, be it understood, to champion the cause of 
right and justice, and take an active part in the direc- 
tion of public affairs. 

My sister busied herself during the last days of 
vacation, in preparing my student’s outfit. She 
insisted on going with me to Paris so that she might 
introduce me to certain families of note, whose 
acquaintance would be most desirable for me, and 
who had been interested in my behalf by common 
friends. She was particularly glad of the opportun- 
ity of taking me to see the Abbe Hermant, the well- 
known apostle of youth. 

The servant of God was at that time nearing the 
end of his holy and useful life, but he still employed 
his remaining strength in the service of souls. He 
promised to have me come and see him and to take 
special interest in my welfare. This was a great 
relief to Marguerite, and made her more reconciled 
to our separation. 

Charles wished to share with her my expenses, 
and it was agreed that each of them should send me 
eighty francs a month. This modest allowance of 
a hundred and sixty francs was ample for the neces- 
sities, and even some of the comforts of life, but it 
was too limited to admit of my indulging in any 


264 


Brother and Sister. 


extravagance or maintaining any relations incom- 
patible with a studious and regular life. 

It was very wise to give me only a small amount 
of money at a time. This precaution saves a young 
man from many dangers. 

The summer which preceded my departure was a 
very lively one for us. Charles and Lucie spent 
September at the Hutterie with their six children. 
There were Jeanne, who was now a big girl eight 
years old, Madeleine, just six, the two boys Hip- 
polyte and Charles, five and four years old, and, 
lastly, Clare and Louise, the little twins who had 
spun out but twenty-six months of their lives. 

As I have said before, my sister-in-law was a 
most loving wife and tender mother, but her good 
nature too often made her over-indulgent, and be- 
cause of this serious short-coming she was unfit 
to bring up her children properly. Being truly 
humble she felt this herself, and saw clearly in what 
respect she was lacking, and so she had some time 
before asked Charles to confide the governing of the 
children to firmer hands than hers. He had willingly 
agreed, for he feared that much harm would result 
from his wife’s habit of yielding. 

Providentially they succeeded in finding the right 
person. 

Abbe Lefort, whom my brother consulted on the 
subject, recommended a young woman twenty-five, 
very intelligent and refined, with good common 
sense and great firmness of character. Mademoiselle 


How a Battle: Is Lost. 


265 


Dupont had been forced by recent reverses to work 
for the support of herself and her mother. She 
seemed made to supply what Lucie lacked. She was 
engaged upon Abbe Lefort’s recommendation, and 
entered upon her duties in my brother’s family 
just at the time when they were starting for An- 
jou, so she spent the vacation with us at the Hutterie. 
It was high time that some sort of discipline be 
established in the family, for the two oldest children, 
Jeanne and Madeleine, were already in a fair way to 
become unbearable. Their sensible governess, I am 
thankful to say, was able to exert the right influ- 
ence over their characters, which were difficult to 
control, though they had many fine traits. Made- 
moiselle Dupont also took charge of the two boys, 
teaching them until they started at Saint-Irenee. 
This was the state of the family affairs when I left 
home to begin my law studies in Paris. 

Marguerite and I left the Hutterie early in the 
morning on the second of November. We went to 
Angers, where we took the train for Paris, arriving 
at five o’clock in the afternoon. 

I was still simple-minded and ingenuous, and it 
was a real delight to have my sister go with me and 
superintend all the arrangements for my new mode 
of life. I was so proud to give her my arm, and 
show her about that beautiful Paris, which she had 
never visited before ! But those happy days did not 
last long, for at the end of a week Marguerite re- 
turned to Anjou. She established me in a small 


266 


Brother and Sister. 


apartment in the Rue du Bac. There was one quite 
large room, which served as bed-room and parlor, 
and another small one where a bed could be put in 
an emergency, and where I could prepare an im- 
promptu meal. I was to get my .own breakfast in 
the morning, and my other meals I took at a board- 
ing house, which was only frequented by students 
of good repute. 

Before leaving, my sister made a point of going 
with me to see Abbe Hermant, who lived in the Rue 
de Tournon, Quartier Saint-Sulpice. The good 
priest received us with that grave, serene cordiality, 
the fruit of genuine charity and perfect courtesy, 
which seemed to me the natural outward expression 
of his virtues. He talked with both of us, and when 
we took leave he said, aside to me, “Thank God al- 
ways for having given you such a sister.” He urged 
me to come again and see him, and mentioned the 
hours when I would be sure to find him at home, 
and before we left he gave us his blessing. 

The visit to Abbe Hermant made a deep impres- 
sion upon us, and we felt as if we had been convers- 
ing with a saint. “How glad I am/’ said Marguer- 
ite, “that a priest of such piety and experience will 
be your director.” 

That same evening I took Marguerite to the sta- 
tion, and the hot tears coursed freely down my 
cheeks as I kissed her good-bye. I was unconscious 
of the observation of the by-standers, for at that 
time I did not know what human respect was. As 


How a Battle: Is Lost. 


267 


the train bearing her home to Anjou disappeared, a 
shudder passed over me. I felt as if I were all alone 
in the world. I was parting from my visible angel. 

Until the feast of the Immaculate Conception, 
December the eighth, everything went well. I set 
to work in earnest and faithfully attended the lec- 
tures at the law-school. Sunday afternoon I spent 
at the “patronage” of my parish, teaching and enter- 
taining a number of young working boys who were 
placed in my charge. I took the keenest interest in 
this work. The boys confided in me and seemed to 
like me, and I was very proud of them, too, interest- 
ing myself in their affairs and looking out for their 
future. They played an important part in my life, 
so much so that all the week I was thinking of my 
Sunday occupation. I prayed for them and tried to 
be better myself, so as to set them a good example. 
On Monday evening I went to the meeting of the 
St. Vincent de Paul conference, of which the patron- 
age was an off-shoot. There I made a report of the 
progress of my work and of the needs of the poor 
families whom it was my business to visit. I 
was much benefited by the example and the conver- 
sation of the older men, who had founded works of 
charity in Paris at the expense of great difficulty 
and labor, and who gave us young ones the advant- 
age of their experience. These meetings were of 
great advantage to me. The older men on their part 
encouraged my zeal, and predicted that I would 


268 


Brother and Sister. 


eventually be a leader in all these enterprises, and 
this made me very proud . 1 

On Thursday afternoon I generally went into the 
country with some students o'f my own age, who 
were practical Catholics, and who, at the suggestion 
of Abbe Hermant, invited me to join them. 

In short, I was most fortunately situated, and if 
I had experienced even a small amount of energy 
and perseverance, and had resolutely followed the 
advice of my wise and saintly director, I would not 
now have to mourn the grave sins of my youth. 

Every Saturday regularly I went to Abbe Her- 
mant, and confessed my faults, and received the 

1 In passing let it be said that those people are very much mis- 
taken who imagine that Catholic charities having for their object 
the improvement, spiritual and temporal, of the laboring man have 
existed only in the last thirty years. To be sure much has been 
done since 1870, but let us take care not to be unjust to those who 
have gone before us. Most of the charities of the present day ex- 
isted formerly in embryo in the St. Vincent de Paul conferences. 
The members of that society did not confine themselves to the re- 
lief of the bodily wants of the poor. A network of different chari- 
ties spread from the conference in each parish. The Association of 
the Holy Family gathered together every Sunday, the father, mother 
and children of each family receiving assistance from the confer- 
ence. The young people were enabled at the “patronage,” as it was 
called, to observe Sunday strictly and yet agreeably. In a word, 
the St. Vincent de Paul Society (and this, indeed, was the object of 
their institute), sought to sanctify their souls by practicing Christian 
charity in many different forms and by various means. What they 
accomplished is not appreciated in certain quarters at the present 
day. 

“Now-a-days,” the director of a certain charity said to me not 
long ago, “we strive to win the young by means of the young. 
We make apostles of them. Formerly the plan was only to pre- 
serve and save them as individuals.” Nothing could be more false. 
Let us give everyone his due and say that the younger generation 
has developed with much zeal and earnestness the work begun by 
their elders, but at the same time let us admit that our elders 
set the example and pointed out the way. 


How a Battik Is Lost. 


269 


sacrament of penance. He always received me with 
the greatest kindness, questioning me minutely as to 
how, where and with whom I spent my time, and 
whether I was faithful to my prayers and other 
spiritual exercises. “As long as you pray faithfully 
and work diligently,” he said, “you need fear noth- 
ing. Hell will be powerless to harm you. But as 
soon as you begin to relax perceptibly in either of 
these two things, your fall is not far off; you may 
rely upon that.’’ 

He knew that my mind was active to the point of 
insatiability, and that it was of the first importance 
for me to be constantly occupied. He brought it 
about that I formed profitable associations, and sug- 
gested useful and interesting reading and different 
questions for study. When I asked about going to 
the theater, he consented to my going occasionally 
to see certain plays, but he warned me against cer- 
tain others as very dangerous, and made me promise 
never to go to them. 

“Always be careful,” he told me, “when you do 
go to the theater, not to go in company with young 
men whose conduct and habits are not above sus- 
picion. Never under any circumstances go behind 
the scenes. Refrain, too, from supper-parties and 
other gatherings to which you may be invited after 
the play. Go home at once, say your prayers no 
matter how tired you may be, and take your night’s 
rest. 

“Shun as you would the plague, bad books and 


270 


Brother and Sister. 


novels which tend to soil the imagination and debase 
and sentimentalize the emotions. 

“Finally, if you are so unfortunate as to fall into 
mortal sin, follow the example of the prodigal son. 
Arise at once, and come with a contrite heart and 
seek absolution. If I am not here, go to some one 
else. Never contract the fatal habit of going to 
sleep with a mortal sin upon your conscience, for you 
will soon grow accustomed to it, and your salvation 
will thereby be imperilled because the prick of re- 
morse will no longer be felt. You will go on living 
in that ‘false peace’ in which the fiend puts his vic- 
tims to sleep. This peace, mark it well, is not that 
which God has promised to men of good-will.” 

For several weeks I was faithful in following 
out these directions, and the enemies of my welfare 
were powerless to harm me. I was too busy to have 
time to be tempted. But in the first part of Decem- 
ber, I began to give way to slothfulness and care- 
lessness in my devotions. Once in a while I would 
omit my prayers on the pretext of weariness or of 
being too busy. Soon I hardly ever said my morn- 
ing prayers. The devil did not tempt me, be it 
understood, at once to mortal sin; I would have 
shrunk from it with horror. He proceeded more 
skillfully. Knowing that my besetting sin was 
curiosity, the desire of knowing and seeing every- 
thing, he first tempted me in that direction. Little 
by little I began to be less strict in guarding my 
senses, my eyes, my ears and, in particular my imagi- 
nation. I read a few novels. 


How a Battle Is Lost. 


271 


The first without being immoral in tendency drew 
me into an enervating and unwholesome atmosphere, 
which by degrees debilitated the faculties of my soul, 
and gave rise to a distaste for work and a still 
greater distaste for prayer. Those works of charity 
which had before been so attractive to me now 
seemed a task which I only accomplished wearily 
and without any interest. 

Soon my reading became more objectionable, 
and yet I continued in spite of the warnings of con- 
science. I devoured works of this sort whole 
mornings at a time, and, of course, my law books 
meantime remained unopened. I hardly ever at- 
tended the lectures at the law-school, and certainly I 
did not hear them, for I was carried away by my 
imagination, which I now made little effort to con- 
trol. 

About this time I experienced a great desire to 
see some of those plays against which my director 
had warned me. I heard other young men speak of 
them in admiring terms, and I was ashamed of not 
having seen them myself. Human respect made me 
dread being questioned on the subject or having 
my opinion asked. What could I say? How could 
I acknowledge my ignorance? 

The much dreaded question was finally put to me 
by a young man of very little brains, it is true, but 
who had a certain bravado about him and an air 
of knowing it all. This was all that was necessary to 
make him the ring-leader of a certain set. Ques- 


272 


Brother and Sister. 


tioned in an unguarded moment, I replied in a con- 
strained manner that “as yet” I had not seen the 
play. 

“But, my dear fellow,” the other rejoined, “where 
have you been? Why, all Paris has seen it! See 
here. Come and go with us this evening, and after- 
wards we will go and get supper with So-and-so and 
So-and-so.” 

The student who spoke, Leon Carleville by name, 
had a very bad reputation, that I knew very well. I 
also recalled the plain command of my director, 
“No plays of this description; no reunions after the 
theater.” I would have liked to refuse, but my 
imagination troubled me. “What will they say if 
I draw back? Carleville is quite capable of telling 
it around to everybody. What will they think of 
me?” Nevertheless, I replied rather timidly that I 
could not go that evening, as I had some important 
work on hand. 

My interlocutor burst into a laugh. “Really, my 
dear fellow, your retreat is not very skillful. You 
just told me a few minutes ago that you did not 
know what to do with yourself this evening. Why 
don’t you say plainly,” he added, sarcastically, “that 
mama has forbidden you to go; it would be a little 
more honest. Well! Some other time, my boy, 
when you have gotten rid of your nurse !” 

My heart beat fast, and for the first time in my 
life I experienced a violent temptation from human 
respect. I did not resist it. The way to this defeat 


How a Battuv Is Lost. 273 

had been well prepared during the preceding few 
days, for I had almost entirely neglected my prayers. 

“I have been forbidden, eh?” I cried in as bold a 
manner as I could assume. “What do you take me 
for? Just to show you that I can do as I please 
just as well as you, I will go with you to-night.” 

“Good for you, old boy,” said the other. “That 
sounds a little more like a man,” and he held out his 
hand, which I took mechanically without another 
word, for I was already thoroughly ashamed of 
myself. 

“It would be impossible to withdraw now,” I 
said to myself, trying to allay the reproaches of my 
conscience, “but this is the first and last time that I 
will ever accept an invitation of that sort. If it is 
extended again I will refuse it positively.” And 
this assurance calmed my mind after a fashion. 

More than once in the course of the day, urged 
by grace which reproached me for my cowardice, I 
was on the point of taking back the promise I had 
made. I commenced three notes to Carleville, in 
which I attempted to tell him that I had been taken 
suddenly ill, and therefore, much to my regret, was 
unable to be of his party. Then I threw aside these 
shuffling excuses. “What’s the use?” I thought. 
“Carleville would not believe me, and he would 
make game of me more than ever. For one minute 
I had a little courage. I resolved to take the bull 
by the horns, to go boldly to Carleville and tell him 
plainly whether he was alone or in the presence of 


18 


274 


Brother and Sister. 


others, “My friend, I was a coward this morning to 
accept your invitation in spite of the disapproval of 
my conscience. I beg that you will not count on me 
for to-night.” 

This is how a resolute and energetic person, for- 
tified by prayer and penetrated with the spirit of 
faith, would have acted. Some people think that it 
is always desirable to avoid a scene. Even so it 
is always possible, when one has been guilty of a 
momentary weakness, to retract by means of a polite 
but firm note, and then to be ready when occasion 
offers to cut short all complaints and taunts by a 
plain statement of the principles at stake, thus pre- 
venting any further advances. It is highly probable 
that such a plan of action will insure one’s being 
left in peace thereafter. A young man who is quiet 
and determined is seldom tormented. 

I once knew an officer in the artillery, dis- 
tinguished as much for his piety as he was for his 
military proficiency, who had gone through the 
polytechnic school at a period when true Catholics 
were very rare. At that time, in certain surround- 
ings, particularly in the government schools, it re- 
quired real heroism to acknowledge one’s faith. “On 
the first holiday after the reopening of the course,” 
this officer said to me one day, when we had been 
talking together, “I took a long walk through the 
city. Towards evening, before starting back for the 
school, I went into Notre Dame, and spent about 
ten minutes at my prayers. It seems that some of 


How a Battik Is Lost. 


275 


my companions had seen me go into the Cathedral. 
They said nothing to me about it that evening, but 
the next day at recreation the proctor of our division 
called all the students together and, after securing 
their attention, turned to me. Tt appears that you 
went to Notre Dame yesterday,’ said he. Tf you 
went to admire it as a historic monument, that was 
quite natural, but if you went to pray, which out of 
respect for our uniform I would not for an instant 
want to believe, I will excuse you for this once, be- 
cause you are a new man, but I wish it distinctly 
understood that it must not occur again.’ 

“All eyes were turned on me, and I confess that 
my heart beat rather fast, though outwardly I man- 
aged to retain my composure, and my glance did not 
waver. For a few seconds I looked the young man 
who was trying to bully me straight in the eye, and 
then in a distinct and uncompromising tone I an- 
swered, T went to Notre Dame to say my prayers, 
and I said my prayers because I am a Catholic, a 
Catholic by conviction and in practice. This matter 
concerns myself alone. I hope you understand? If 
anyone desires any further information, I am quite 
at his disposal.’ I waited confidently and in a cool 
and determined attitude. “I can assure you,” con- 
tinued the officer, “that the matter was looked upon 
as settled, and that from that time on my religion 
was not interfered with.” 

I am not saying that it is always necessary to 
act in this way. That depends upon a number of 


276 


Brother and Sister. 


circumstances, upofr one’s own character and turn 
of mind, and upon the attitude of the adversary ; but 
that which is plain, is the fact that straight-forward,, 
simple determination will almost always ride over 
the difficulty, whereas timidity, which comes from 
human respect, far from disarming the enemy, will 
lead on from one capitulation to another until at 
last we are brought to the point of being ashamed of 
our faith. 

In the dilemma in which I now found myself I 
did not exhibit the courage of the young officer 
above quoted, but showed myself to be an utter 
coward, and after some hesitating inclination to- 
wards resistance, I contented myself with fair words, 
repeating over and over, “It is only for this 
once ; I only do it to show that I have some force of 
character and not to appear entirely unsophisticated, 
which would nullify any possible good influence I 
might have over them in the future ; but next time I 
will take a positive stand, and, if necessary, I will 
openly resist.” I knew very well in the bottom of 
my heart that I was a coward, and that I would not 
resist, but I tried to deceive myself in order to drown 
the voice of conscience. When evening came I went 
in search of Carleville, whom I had agreed to meet. 
He greeted me with a protecting nod, and presented 
me to the others who were with him. 

The play which they took me to see was most 
immoral, both in its plot and in the manner of pre- 
senting it. At first I was very uneasy. I was 


How a Battik Is Lost. 


277 


ashamed of myself, and longed for the play to end. 
Little by little, however, I yielded to the pleasures 
of sense, my conscience sank into silence, and the 
scene before my eyes absorbed me completely. 
When the curtain fell on the last act, I felt as if 
awakening from a dream, and mechanically I fol- 
lowed my new acquaintances out of the theater. 
They led the way to a restaurant, where we were 
served in a private room, and were joined presently 
by several women who had been invited. And now 
for two hours my ears were assailed by stories and 
songs which made me exceedingly uncomfortable. 
I wished myself a long way off. But how was I 
to make good my escape under fire of all the eyes 
which in imagination I beheld aimed point blank at 
me? 

Of course there was a good deal of drinking, and, 
although I was much more moderate than the others, 
I was so unaccustomed to this sort of indulgence that 
by the time I reached the street I was quite be- 
wildered. Carleville took me home in a cab. “For 
a first attempt you did very well, ,, he said. “In time 
we shall make something of you.” 

I was so worn out that on reaching my room I 
fell, an inert mass, upon the bed. It was late when 
I awoke the next day, and my imagination still 
swarmed with the evil phantasms which had 
passed before my eyes during that night of carousal. 
I remained inactive and dreaming the whole morn- 
ing, without energy enough to say my prayers. 


278 


Brother and Sister. 


However, in the afternoon, when I regained control 
of myself to a certain degree, I began to realize with 
remorse the downward trend I had been following 
for a week past. Conscience pointed to several mor- 
tal sins committed with the full consent of the will, 
and I saw how the way had been laid for them by 
my lack of watchfulness over myself and my neglect 
of prayer during the days preceding. As I still had 
strong faith, I now felt real repentance for my con- 
duct, and desiring to keep the promise given to my 
director, I made my way to the Rue de Tournon, 
and there frankly and with true contrition confessed 
my sins. 

The good priest showed me clearly the cause 
of each of my falls. It was failure to keep watch 
over my senses, neglect of my devotions and disre- 
gard of his distinct warning not to associate with 
persons of doubtful character. He tried to make me 
appreciate the necessity of being faithful to my reso- 
lutions, congratulating me at the same time for 
having come at once to confession. I left him, 
firmly determined to break the dangerous ties I had 
formed. 


CHAPTER XV. 


EVIL DAYS. 

1 WAS perfectly sincere when I made these prom- 
* ises to my confessor, but, unfortunately for me, 
among my many faults there was one most danger- 
ous, which at that time I did not fully realize, and 
that one was presumption. This fatal propensity, 
the offspring of pride, had become much more pro- 
nounced since I left college. I thought myself strong, 
and was certain that it was easy for me to resist 
temptation. Very serious occasions of sin appeared 
in my eyes to be almost devoid of danger, and so I 
did not perceive what pressing need I had of divine 
assistance, and my prayers were luke-warm and 
lacked earnestness. In a word, I did not realize 
my own nothingness, and I did not send up to God 
that suppliant cry of the unfortunate who feels him- 
self about to perish, — that supreme appeal which 
on the wings of faith and hope pierces the skies, 
and reaches to the very throne of divine mercy. 

How many young men have been lost on account 
of this foolish self-confidence, which makes them 
plunge with temerity into the very midst of danger 
without being protected by the arms of faith! 

Returning one morning from the law-school not 


279 


280 


Brother and Sister. 


more than three or four days after my interview 
with Abbe Hermant, I found on my writing table a 
novel which had recently appeared and which had 
already been much talked about. It had been sent 
by Carleville, the student who had included me in 
his party the week before. He sent a short note 
with the book : “I think this will please you. It is 
all the go. I have promised to lend it to two other 
fellows, so I wish you would finish it to-day or to- 
morrow. It is so exciting that you are through with 
it before you know it.” 

I paused for some time. I knew the book was an 
abomination, the nastiest of the nasty, but what was 
I to do? What could I say to Carleville when he 
came next day to get it? 

After thinking a few minutes I said to myself : 
“Pshaw ! The book would have been bad for me a 
few weeks ago, when I was fresh from the provinces, 
but by this time I have seen enough of the world 
not to be affected by a few objectionable sentences. 
Besides, I will only cut the leaves, and glance 
through the volume so as to be able to say something 
about it. You could hardly call that reading a for- 
bidden book.” And with this cogent reasoning I 
set to work to look over the novel. 

I turned the first few pages rapidly without much 
attention to what I was reading, but soon, attracted 
by the plot, which promised to be lively, and ingen- 
ious and to unfold in life-like and exciting situations, 
fascinated by the poetry of the descriptions, the 


Evil, Days. 


281 


polish of the style, the wealth of imagery and, alas ! 
it must be said, drawn on without acknowledging it 
to myself by that very feature of the book which 
made it in the highest degree injurious, I allowed 
my attention to become gradually fixed, and I began 
systematically to read, or rather, to devour this 
abominable romance. My conscience made one last 
protest. “You are reading a very bad book, and 
running a serious risk. Catch yourself in time!” 
But by that time my attention had become riveted, 
intense, breathless, and the voice of curiosity was 
much louder than that of reason. I listened 
to curiosity, and heedless of conscience was soon 
wholly absorbed in reading. This book worked 
awful havoc in my intellect and my emotions. My 
imagination was fed upon excitement, my mind 
rendered for days incapable of serious application, 
and my heart became more and more averse to 
prayer and to the inspirations of grace. 

I felt myself borne on towards a much steeper 
descent than that down which I had slipped a few 
days before, and yet, hard pressed by remorse, for 
an instant I thought of going again to Abbe Her- 
mant. Then I put it off until the next day. Con- 
fession, which had always been so easy before, now 
seemed an impossible task. I made the sign of the 
cross, and said a “memorare.” “I will go to confes- 
sion, though, to-morrow,” I said to myself. “It 
will be better.” The thought of the judgment of 
God pursued me for a few moments, and then I 


282 


Brother and Sister. 


fell asleep in comparative peace. The first time that 
I had been conscious of being in a state of mortal 
sin, I had not been able to close my eyes the whole 
night. How soon the fatal habit had fixed itself 
upon my soul, of living without anxiety in a state 
deserving of the wrath of God ! 

The next morning, waking up after an untroubled 
sleep, I was hardly the least bit alarmed. Two or 
three times during the day I reminded myself that 
it would be well to go to confession, but my repent- 
ance grew weaker by degrees, and when evening 
came my qualms had quite disappeared, and without 
more ado I put off my confession until Christmas, 
which was only a week later. 

During the following week I said my prayers a 
few times with my lips, but without any realization 
of my need of God, I read without hesitation several 
books which formerly I would never have permit- 
ted myself to open, I ceased entirely to guard my 
senses from dangerous objects, and I went to several 
plays of the sort I had been warned against as par- 
ticularly dangerous. As on the first occasion, they 
were followed by meetings during which the most 
ordinary conventions were utterly ignored. And 
still I continued to quiet myself with the same old 
arguments when my conscience strove occasionally 
to protest. “All this was, perhaps, dangerous for 
me when I first came to Paris. Now that I am more 
accustomed to it there is really nothing reprehensible 
about it.” I began also to say to myself, “It is plain 


Eviiv Days. 


283 


to me that parents and confessors greatly exagger- 
ate the dangers a man encounters in his early 
Career.” 

Poor fool! I was already in the depths of the 
abyss, and I complained that its dangers had been 
overdrawn ! 

There was another suggestion, too, which at 
first I did not dare heed, but which was little by little 
insinuating itself into my mind. “It is just as easy 
to confess several sins as it is to confess one.” I 
did not quite dare add, “So why hesitate to commit 
them?” but this detestable conclusion, more under- 
stood than distinctly formulated, failed not, never- 
theless, to make its impression upon me. At last the 
anxiety which I felt when I first began seriously to 
offend God became more and more vague, and I en- 
joyed almost complete ease of mind. I went to sleep 
at night without the least apprehension, after mumb- 
ling a few prayers. Temptations even became less 
frequent, and I concluded that the Christian life was 
much less difficult when one did not go to Confes- 
sion so often. 

Stupid course of reasoning ! Is a soldier, who has 
surrendered, still attacked by the enemy? He is 
sent to the rear of the baggage. He is watched in 
order to prevent his recovering his liberty, but on 
the battlefield he no longer counts. 

Ah, yes! When one is in a state of mortal sin, 
it is to the interest of the devil to imbue him with 
a false sense of security and sink him in that per- 


284 


Brother and Sister. 


nicious slumber which is the very vestibule of hell. 
The fiend takes care not to disturb him lest he might 
with horror realize his condition. He sometimes 
even ceases for a time all violent attack, satisfied that 
he will be able later on, when he shall have entangled 
it more closely in the toils, to push this soul to the 
very worst extreme. 

Meantime Christmas Eve had come. That morn- 
ing I had a letter from Marguerite. The sweet girl 
as yet suspected nothing. She believed that her 
brother was in a state pleasing to Almighty God, and 
that his ideas and thoughts were still in perfect ac- 
cord with her own. She wrote as follows : 

My Dear Paul : 

I do not need to remind you, I know, of the great feast 
we are about to celebrate. This letter will reach you on 
Christmas Eve with a present from the Infant Jesus, who 
sends it to you by your big sister as usual. Of course you 
will be going to the midnight mass, which you always 
loved so as a child, when we lived together at Mesnil be- 
fore you went to school. We used to go to confession 
early in the morning the day before so as not to have to 
wait so long, and we would be so happy going home. At 
night we started at eleven o’clock, wrapped up to our 
eyes, for it was bitter cold. You and I would go together 
through the darkness, over snow and ice with old Tom 
for protection, and he would wait solemnly at the church 
door to take us home again. You were too young then to 
go to Holy Communion, and I remember how you would 
push up close to me and say, “Kiss me, Guitte, to give me 
the Infant Jesus.” Now, dear brother, you have the great 
happiness of receiving Jesus in your own heart. Pray to 
him, implore Him to grant you the strength which you 
lack to destroy in your heart the evil germs of human re- 


Evil, Days. 


285 


spect which spring from pride, (you know that pride is 
your besetting sin), and to preserve you from the sin of 
curiosity, which has been the ruin of so many souls. 

This morning I arranged a crib in your room as I 
used to do every year when you were at home. All dur- 
ing the Christmas season we used to say our prayers there 
before the Infant Jesus. I have put a light to take your 
place before the cradle of the Divine Babe. There it shall 
remain until the Purification. May your heart, like the 
little flame, live and die for Jesus only! 

Let us together then, dearest Paul, adore to-night our 
God who alone is worthy of all our love, and ask him to 
unite our hearts in His grace and His love. Kiss me as I 
do you that we may give each other Jesus. 

Your sister. 

Marguerite. 

In reading this letter I was for the time really 
touched, and it confirmed me in my intention of 
going to Confession that day. In the evening I 
went to Saint-Sulpice, where I knew Abbe Hermant 
heard confessions on the eve of feasts. I learned 
from the sacristan that he was out of the city, and 
would not return to Paris until the end of the fol- 
lowing week. I had a great mind to make this an 
excuse for putting off the matter until later, and yet 
I felt impelled to lighten my conscience. There were 
a number of priests hearing Confession in the 
church and in the sacristy, and it would have been 
very easy to go to one of them. For an instant I 
debated, “Pshaw !” I thought, “They say it is a bad 
plan to change your confessor. I will come again 
next week.” And satisfied with this good resolu- 
tion, I went out of the church, and walked rapidly 


286 


Brother and Sister. 


away. Confession now seemed to me such a dis- 
agreeable duty that I was delighted to be rid of the 
prospect. When I got home I reasoned thus in- 
geniously with myself: “Really, I am not at all 
well prepared to receive Holy Communion, on such 
a solemn feast, too. It would be better to wait until 
Easter. Then I can attend the Lenten instructions, 
and make the retreat at Notre Dame. That would 
be a more fitting preparation.” And I calmly post- 
poned my confession for three months. 

I followed my regular custom, however, and went 
to the midnight Mass, but I found it very irksome. 
In spite of all I could do, I was dissatisfied with my- 
self. My conscience reproached me with the base- 
ness of my conduct, and I could not stifle its voice. 
The service seemed never-ending to me, and after 
the communion of the priest I hurried home. 

Next day I wrote a few lines to Marguerite. This 
reply, like all my letters written at that time, was 
absolutely flat and meaningless. I told her not to 
worry about me, that my ideas were still the same, 
that I loved her dearly, was in the best of health, 
etc., etc. 

That Christmas Day was very tiresome. I 
thought it would never end, and did not know what 
to do with myself. I did not dare seek my new 
acquaintances or read immoral books, because I 
would have been afraid to desecrate such a day ; so I 
was dreadfully dull. I would not acknowledge to 
myself the cause of my depression, but I could not 


Evil, Days. 


287 


help comparing with my present miserable state the 
pure and innocent joy which I had felt in my child- 
hood when Christmas came around once more. I 
recalled the gathering at night for the midnight 
Mass, and how we set out for Saint-Eaurent across 
the country covered with its white mantle of snow 
under a sky glittering with stars. There was the 
brightly lighted church, the harmonious sound of the 
organ, the creche where the ox and the ass warmed 
with their breath the Infant God just born for us. 
Then came the pleasant return home, where a joyful 
midnight feast awaited us beside a blazing fire, to 
say nothing of the pretty presents which the Infant 
Jesus had put in my shoes while I was gone. I am 
reminded of those lines of the poet which express 
so true a thought : 

“A sorrow’s crown of sorrow 
Is the thought of happier days.” 

Happier days! Ah, yes! And now I was indeed 
unhappy, for I had lost my God, the sovereign good 
of my soul, and though I still believed in Him, His 
grace no longer dwelt in my heart ! 

Meantime these salutary reflections soon passed 
out of my mind, and the next day I resumed once 
more my unwholesome occupations and my idle way 
of living. During the days following Christmas I 
committed a number of grievous faults, and sank 
rapidly into the depths of sin, and this because, in 
consequence of my being unfaithful to grace, its 
promptings became less and less frequent, and my 


288 


Brother and Sister. 


heart avoiding prayer became harder and harder, 
and my unrestrained passions grew more and more 
over-weening. The enemy of our salvation had 
gained an important victory by preventing me from 
rising again by means of a good confession, and he 
now wound his victim more tightly in his net, and 
riveted his chains more firmly so as to make him 
his slave and effectually cut him off from the road 
which led back to righteousness. 

For some time past Carleville had been gradually 
acquiring a great deal of influence over me, and the 
miserable fellow now exerted it for the purpose of 
drawing me further along on the road to perdition. 
During the first part of January he managed by de- 
grees to entangle me in certain associations, the very 
thought of which would have filled me with horror 
six weeks before. I was now on the most intimate 
footing with the hare-brained set whose amusements 
he directed, and soon, through constantly ming- 
ling in their company, 1 came to regard as quite 
natural and necessary things of which I did not 
even have an idea before I left Anjou. I imagined 
that the young men who lived this sort of life must 
be very happy. My emotions were excited, and my 
head quite turned, and soon I began to feel ashamed 
that I had not yet taken the decisive step. Carleville 
and his friends played skillfully upon the fiery pas- 
sion which took possession of my heart and clouded 
my intellect. They had perceived my inclination 
without my having expressed it. A suitable party 


Evil, Days. 


289 


was engaged. A young person of their set conde- 
scended to honor me with her favorable considera- 
tion. She undertook to initiate me into the customs 
of the gay world, in other words, to smother my con- 
science and drag me into the vortex of pleasure. 
Fearing nothing so much as the ridicule of my asso- 
ciates, I was base enough to fall in with the arrange- 
ments made for me, and very soon I found myself as 
far gone as the worst of the lot, enslaved by the most 
degrading of bonds. So blinded was I by passion 
that for some time I did not realize that I was at 
the very bottom of the pit. 

It was the state of my finances which first opened 
my eyes. The young person who had made it her 
business to sharpen the wits of the little provincial, 
first invited herself to dine with me. This made me 
very proud. Now at least I was free from tutelage 
and the master of my own destiny. . . . What 

madness! At the very moment when I was boast- 
ing of my freedom the chains of bondage were being 
riveted upon me ! 

Of course the most fashionable and most expen- 
sive restaurant was chosen. This was quite natural, 
and I had no objections to make. The dinner for 
two cost forty-eight francs. It never occurred to me 
to question the amount, I was too much afraid of 
being laughed at. I was next informed that it would 
be desirable to go to the opera that evening, and to 
this I also agreed without demur. Glory, you see, 
costs money! After the performance a fine supper 


19 


290 


Brother and Sister. 


took what was left of my funds, which had amounted 
to one hundred and thirty francs! I was then per- 
mitted to call the carriage, and was told during the 
return drive that the evening had been quite pleasant. 
At parting I was given to understand that a second 
invitation for the following Thursday, (it was then 
Monday), would be acceptable. I was profuse in 
my thanks, and went off divided between happiness 
at having made a good impression and the discom- 
fort of realizing that my purse was perfectly flat. 
Indeed, I was placed in a most unpleasant predica- 
ment. In a few days I would be called upon to lay 
myself out again, or else set at defiance all the rules 
of gallantry, and I had not even a single sou towards 
this expense. The fact that my rent was due at the 
end of the week also worried me greatly. Fortu- 
nately (?) for me, next day I received, a few days 
ahead of time, the little allowance which Charles and 
Marguerite forwarded every month, so I became 
enriched by a hundred and sixty francs. My honor 
was safe! I paid my landlord thirty francs for the 
month just past, and persuaded the proprietor of the 
restaurant where I took my meals to let my bill run 
three months. I was quite proud of having extri- 
cated myself so skillfully from my difficulties. I 
now had some means at my disposal ! Like a fool, I 
was encroaching upon my future resources unmind- 
ful of the fact that I was only putting off the evil 
day, for in the end my family would certainly dis- 
cover the truth. For the present I only considered 


Eviiy Days. 


291 


one thing, and that was that I was able to comply 
with the demands of my new acquaintance. 

The following Thursday I was again accorded 
the favor of providing an evening’s diversion. There 
was a repetition of the previous performance, and I 
went home with a hundred sous in my pocket. More- 
over I had been made aware that in a few days the 
trifling sum of three hundred francs would be 
needed. Of course one could apply to one’s financial 
agent, but such details were so tiresome. It was so 
much pleasanter to draw upon me, knowing that 
such a paltry amount could not possibly inconveni- 
ence me. 

I was much peturbed. Reason and conscience 
both told me that to continue in my present course 
was madness, and I knew that I ought at any cost 
to put an end to this connection, which would de- 
stroy my soul and ruin me at the same time, that I 
was deliberately stepping over a precipice, that 
sooner or later Charles and Marguerite would find 
it all out, and I should only have the shame and 
confusion of being discovered wandering like a child 
into a path which brought up against a wall. 

But my vanity was touched to the quick at the 
thought of having to turn back. “What will Carle- 
ville and X. and Y. and all the rest say when they 
hear that I have broken away?” I thought. It 
seemed to me that if I sought to withdraw all Paris 
would point its finger at me. I would be regarded 
as a boy, a mere baby ! And then I was so proud of 


29 2 


Brother and Sister. 


having the right to be on intimate terms with a per- 
son who seemed to me so amiable and so bright, and 
in whom I descried so many good qualities. How 
jealous the others must be to see her single out a 
young student like me to honor with her friendship ! 
My heart also had its say, in which poetic ideas 
played their part. Deluded simpleton that I was, I 
believed that I was loved, and I pictured to myself 
how, if I sundered these tender ties, I would break 
this heart, which was of such delicate workmanship 
that my desertion would deal it a mortal blow. 

If at this crisis I had resorted to prayer — and I 
was at that time able to do so — God would have 
given me strength to burst my bounds and free my- 
self from servitude; but I did not pray. All that I 
did was to weep and fret and try to solve the prob- 
lem by human means. 

However, I was shaken, and I would, perhaps, 
have yielded to the voice of reason had not my van- 
ity been put to a cruel test. While I was playing 
hot and cold after this manner, there came a knock 
at my door. It was my new acquaintance who 
honored me with a visit. One would almost think 
she had divined the state of my soul. Good-humored, 
engaging and gay, she at once made herself at home, 
and proceeded without further ceremony to inspect 
my little apartment. Trunks, drawers, papers, 
everything was ransacked, and I like an idiot stood 
by without a word, while she took possession. Sud- 
denly she stopped before Marguerite's picture, which 
stood on a little bracket over my writing table. 


Eviiv Days. 


293 


“What have we here?” she said, picking up the 
picture with an air of displeasure. 

“That is a picture of my sister, Marguerite,” I 
said, with a note of impatience, “Be so good as to 
put it back in its place.” 

She burst into a laugh. “You must acknowledge 
she is rather countrified looking, you old Goth !” she 
went on in a teasing tone, playing with the frame 
which held the cherished likeness. 

Every good instinct which I still possessed was 
aroused at this outrage. I felt that something 
hitherto inviolate in the inmost precincts of my be- 
ing had been menaced, and that if I permitted this 
most intimate sanctuary of my soul to be invaded, I 
should be subjugated once for all. 

I was on the point of showing my visitor the door. 
She clearly perceived what was going on in my 
mind, and realizing that she was about to play her 
last card and that she must at any cost arouse my 
pride and vanity in order to overpower the good im- 
pulse which threatened to wrest me from her grasp, 
she began to rally me in a manner both sarcastic and 
pitying. 

She would not come again, she said. Evidently 
I was not yet grown up, and she had been mistaken 
in supposing that I was. It only remained for her 
to beg my pardon for her blunder. “We will write 
to Mademoiselle Marguerite Leclere, and she will 
come in all haste to Paris to act as nurse for little 
Paul. A child encounters so many dangers in the 


294 


Brother and Sister. 


gay capital! Big sister will give her little brother 
two sous on Sunday if he has been good, and every 
morning she will walk to the law-school with him. 
She will sit behind his desk and do fancy-work, 
while she watches to see that he does not talk to his 
neighbors or stick his fingers in his nose. Bed- 
time at eight o’clock, high mass and vespers on 
Sunday, and perhaps an occasional entertainment at 
the patronage if Mademoiselle Marguerite deems it 
perfectly proper,” etc., etc. 

My injured vanity took complete possession of me, 
put to rout the generous impulses which had aroused 
my anger, and I was weak enough and low enough 
to beg that my momentary hastiness might be over- 
looked. 

The next day, needless to relate, I was more 
deeply involved than ever, and as the demands of 
this individual grew daily more and more extrava- 
gant, I had recourse to a shameful expedient in order 
to procure the means to gratify them. 

I wrote a beseeching letter to Lucie to ask her to 
send me as soon as possible a few hundred francs, 
which I needed very badly. My excuse was the 
coming examinations, transcriptions to be made, 
theses to be printed, the loss of my purse in the 
street, and so on! I conjured her above all to say 
nothing of this to her husband, as he would be sure 
to report it to Marguerite, who would then worry 
herself ill imagining that I was not behaving as I 
should and that my request could have no other rea- 


Eviiv Days. 


295 


son. Poor Lucie, who knew nothing of the world, 
took the idle talk I told her for gospel truth, and was 
innocent enough to send me a thousand francs im- 
mediately. She was still more foolish in that she 
promised to say nothing to Charles. She closed her 
letter by urging me not to forget to go to Holy 
Communion on the First Friday! ! 

As Monsieur Robert gave his daughter money for 
her charities and her personal expenses whenever 
she asked him, without keeping any account of it, it 
was an easy matter for her to renew her remittance 
to me two or three times during the year without 
anyone’s being the wiser. I asked her assistance 
sometimes on one pretext, sometimes on another. 
Now it was my law library, which I must begin to 
get together, and which was so costly. Then I 
needed a piano to make my evenings more agreeable 
and to avoid forgetting what I had learned. This 
last argument was most telling in effect and won 
for me warm praise for my good sense and my 
taste for the right sort of amusements. In short, 
I was never at a loss for an excuse, and my credu- 
lous sister-in-law, who was far indeed from sus- 
pecting that she was accomplishing my destruction 
by complying with these repeated demands, always 
sent me the money. 

Meanwhile Easter was close at hand, but I was 
so absorbed with my pursuit of pleasure that I 
could scarcely realize one fine day that we had en- 
tered upon Holy Week. The thought sobered me 


296 


Brother and Sister. 


for an instant, and I had a desire to return to God. 
The evil angel who was ever at my side, for thanks 
to Lucie, my companionship was very profitable, 
divined the cause of my pre-occupation, and had 
little trouble in banishing the vague leaning towards 
repentance. “What is the use of going to confes- 
sion ?” said this cruel enemy of my soul, “You have 
no intention of changing your way of living. You 
know very well it is impossible. Have you not 
tried it once? It is even less possible now than it 
was six months ago. Such notions do very well 
for people when they begin to grow old. Perhaps 
some day I shall become very pious, too, but youth 
must first pass by. The time to be good has not 
come yet either for you or for me .” 1 

I knew perfectly well that this was false reason- 
ing, but it nevertheless had its effect, and stupid 
as I was, it was enough to cause the faint desire 
for freedom, which had for an instant made my 
heart flutter, to vanish. 

That very same day I met good Abbe Hermant 
on a street corner. He recognized me and stopped 
to ask how I was getting on. As he reproached 
me gently for not having been to see him, I lied in 
order to relieve my embarassment. I told him 
that I had been several times to see him and had, 

x For her the time never was to come. The unhappy creature 
died a few months later, the victim of a railroad accident, and 
passed suddenly from the pleasures of a bad life to the tribunal of 
the God who has said “Watch and pray, for at an hour when you 
think not I will come.” 


Evil Days. 


297 


much to my disappointment, not found him at home, 
and that I had been going to another confessor as 
he had recommended in case he should be absent. In 
this way I was sure of cutting short all other in- 
quiries on the part of the priest, who was too deli- 
cate to pursue the subject. He passed on after 
another pleasant word or two. Here was one more 
grace refused. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


this prodigal son. 

I HAVE often heard young men who lived as I 
did give expression to sentiments like the fol- 
lowing: It is impossible to do otherwise. Every- 
body does it. Confessors do not know anything 
about life as it really is. There is a crisis which 
comes inevitably in every young man’s life. There 
is no use trying to choke it off. You might as 
well try to stop a torrent. 

I said this as others said it, and even more em- 
phatically and persistently, and at the same time 
I knew very well that I was lying, and that is the 
very reason why I protested so loudly. 

No; it is not true that it is impossible for a young 
man to live according to God’s law. 

They say they cannot, but they are only trying to 
deceive themselves. They could break away from 
their bondage, but they love it, and will not leave 
it and will not pray for the strength to leave it. 
It is pride which makes them say that everyone does 
the same. This is their way of justifying them- 
selves. They say that it is not weakness which 
makes them do what everyone does. At least they 
do not have to reproach themselves with being hypo- 


298 


Thk Prodigal Son. 


299 


crites. They do wrong, but they do not conceal it, 
whereas those who pretend to purity pose as virtu- 
ous, and at bottom they are no better than the rest. 
Those who speak thus thrill with satisfaction when 
they hear of the fall of a young Christian who has 
had the name of being faithful to his duties. They 
seem to think that such a failure justifies them in 
their own eyes, and enables them to hold up their 
heads; for they say, at least they can claim the 
merit of being candid. It is this sentiment, one of 
the basest that a man can harbor in his breast, which 
makes the success of Moliere’s Tartufe, and will 
continue to immortalize that character: “So much 
for the pious ! They are no better than we are, and 
at lea'St we do not hide what we are.” 

I said all this, too, and when in those accursed 
days which I shall mourn to my life’s end, I met a 
young man of sound habits and irreproachable con- 
duct, I felt a sort of aversion for him. I resented 
that he should be virtuous while I was plunged in 
vice. This integrity which of itself was a rebuke to 
me was odious to me, and not being able to deny it, 
I wished to suppress it, for its brightness hurt my 
eyes. 

Such is the language and such the sentiments of 
the sinner who does not want to acknowledge his 
own wretchedness. I have been through it all, and 
I know very well that at that time I tried to lie 
even to myself, by saying that I could not observe 
the divine law and that everyone else did the same. 


300 


Brother and Sister. 


This last assertion was an impudent falsehood. 
Yes; there are young men who walk without fear 
and without reproach in the way of the command- 
ments of God. I know it, and I have known such 
men, and they were not a few individuals here and 
there lost in the general crowd. They walked with 
eyes uplifted, and pursued their way full of courage 
and enthusiasm, proving by their attitude that vir- 
tue is not a mere idle word here below. It is not 
indeed by their own strength that these valiant 
Christians push forward on the arduous road which 
leads to heaven. It is grace which enlightens, di- 
rects and fortifies them, and this grace they obtain 
by persistent prayer, that prayer to which Christ 
himself has promised the victory. 

God did not make sin a necessity. To say so or 
to think so is blasphemy against Infinite Wisdom 
and Justice. Therefore man has always the power 
to avoid sin. The personal experience of each 
one of us proves that it is always possible to resist 
temptation or at least to pray for the necessary aid, 
but the sinner does not wish to pray because he does 
not desire in earnest to change his life, because he 
loves his misery, because he loves the mire in which 
he is wallowing, because like the prodigal in the 
gospel he wishes to feed upon the husks which 
the swine eat. 

One day — I anticipate events somewhat — I en- 
countered an old school-mate in the neighborhood of 
Notre-Dame-des-Victoires. Francois Charley had 


The: Prodigal Son. 


301 


remained faithful to God. He knew quite well that 
I was following another road, and I had, moreover, 
openly told him so. 

“Let’s go in to Notre-Dame-des-Victoires for a 
moment as we used to,” he said. 

The proposal was anything but agreeable to me, 
but I had no plausible reason for refusing, so I 
followed Charley after making him promise not to 
keep me long. 

I had hardly knelt down before the Blessed Vir- 
gin’s altar when the most intense emotion surged 
through my whole being. The thoughts of faith 
awoke with extraordinary force in my soul. This 
was an awful crisis in my life. I felt that if I were 
to remain there, I would be conquered by the Mother 
of Mercy, but I did not want her to reclaim me! 
I loved my sinful manner of life. I loved my slav- 
ery, and hardening myself against divine assistance 
I rose by a violent effort, and walked quickly to the 
door of the church. Charley, much astonished, fol- 
lowed me, and when we got outside, asked me what 
had happened. I complained of a slight indisposi- 
tion and the need of air, and after a few common- 
place and constrained remarks, I left him as soon as 
possible in order to hide my emotion from him. 

That day I was guilty of horrible ingratitude to- 
wards Almighty God, and it was only a miracle of 
Divine Mercy which prevented my being cast off 
forever. 

And now came the long vacation, and I could no 


302 


Brother and Sister. 


longer postpone my departure for Anjou. At Eas- 
ter I had alleged as an excuse for not returning to 
the Hutterie the invitation of a friend to spend a 
few days with him at his home in the Bordelais. It 
was untrue, and I did not leave Paris. I knew very 
well that this sort of a pretext put forth at the end 
of the school year would appear very strange and 
might give rise to suspicion. Moreover, I was not 
sorry to' leave for a time the burning heat of the 
city, and breathe the more salubrious air of the fair 
valley of the Loire. And, finally, the hunting season 
was at hand, and I looked forward to surpassing if 
possible my record of the previous year as a marks- 
man. 

I had not studied at all since I had been in Paris, 
and I fully deserved to fail in my examinations, but 
at that time the examinations for the first year of 
the law course were mere child’s play, and any 
student who had a tolerably good memory could, 
with the aid of the text-book, in a few weeks get 
an idea of the matter to be covered. This idea 
would be very superficial, of course, but it would be 
sufficient to carry him through. As I learned very 
easily, I managed to scrape through, and without 
passing a brilliant examination, I obtained some 
marks of approbation which were sufficient to save 
me from the accusation of having wasted my time. 

I reached Angers on the second of August, early 
in the morning. Marguerite was waiting for me at 
the station with her country wagon drawn by a big 


The Prodigag Son. 


303 


farm horse who now took Fanfan’s place. We 
were soon at the Hutterie. My sister was over- 
joyed to see me, and I was glad, too, although I felt 
secretly unworthy of her pure affection. This was 
because I had not lost my faith. I was far from 
renouncing my evil ways, but I still experienced 
occasional pangs of remorse, and realized that I 
was traveling on the wrong road. 

What a contrast between my feelings now and 
formerly when going home for vacation! When I 
returned from school my heart was filled with joy 
and peace, and I would throw myself into my dear 
sister’^ arms with the simplicity of a child. But 
now, though I was glad to see her, I was constrained 
and uncomfortable in her presence, and I instinct- 
ively avoided her eyes, as if afraid that clear, pure 
gaze would penetrate to the very depths of my soul, 
and probe the gaping wound made there by sin. 

Marguerite's suspicions were soon aroused, for 
she was accustomed to read in my eyes the emotions 
of my heart! She did not at once seek an expla- 
nation, but I could see by the sadness which came 
over her that she divined a part of the truth. 

The first Friday of the month of August she 
asked me if I were not going to church with her. 
I did not dare refuse, as it would give her an 
opportunity to question me, and I went with her to 
Saint-Laurent. Needless to say, I did not go to 
Holy Communion. I still had too much faith to 
commit such a sacrilege. On the way home Mar- 


304 


Brother and Sister. 


guerite talked of other things, and said nothing on 
the subject of religion. 

The next Sunday I went to mass with her and 
the household. As yet, I had not disobeyed this 
commandment of the Church even in Paris, ex- 
cept once or twice when by culpable negligence I 
had failed to fulfill it, but I did not habitually miss 
mass. 

The feast of the Assumption came, and still I 
did not approach the sacraments. As we were 
returning from Saint-Taurent, I noticed that Mar- 
guerite’s face wore an expression of indescribable 
sadness, and tears glistened in her eyes, When we 
reached the house, she went up to my room with 
me, sat down, drew me down beside her, and put her 
arms around me. 

“My dearest,” she said. “There is surely some- 
thing wrong. You never failed to go to Holy 
Communion on a day like this. I beg you to tell 
me what it is that weighs on your heart. Tell your 
big sister, your ‘little mother.’ If you have done 
wrong it will be forgiven, only I must know it, 
dear Paul. You know Father and Mother placed 
you, body and soul, in my keeping. You know that 
for your sake I have broken my heart. I have never 
reproached you with it, dear, but now you have 
reached the turning point in your life! So far you 
have always confided in me. Do not hide away now 
from your true, your best friend. Come! Don’t 
be afraid. I will say the worst at once. You have 


T^hk Prodigal Son. 


305 


been in bad company, have run in debt, perhaps, 
even, you have lost your faith. Tell me what it 
is, and with God’s help all will be well. I have 
some little savings which will set you straight again. 
But do not keep everything to yourself like this. 
Tell me, Oh, tell me!” and the sweet child’s tears fell 
on my forehead. 

I was deeply moved, and on the very point of lay- 
ing bare to her motherly heart my own with all 
its load, but pride checked on my very lips the con- 
fession which was about to escape. I caught my- 
self up, and feigned astonishment. “It is not right 
for you to worry so, Guitte,” I said, drawing gently 
away from her. “I have not lost my faith, I as- 
sure you. You know that I always go to mass on 
Sunday. As for Holy Communion, I do not like 
to change my confessor, so I gave up Abbe Her- 
mant because he is away so much. I chose another 
priest and I like him very well. I go to him now, 
and that is why I have not been to confession since 
vacation began. I tell you candidly that I detest 
changing my confessor.” 

“But how foolish,” interrupted Marguerite, “I 
am sure you know Abbe Aubry well enough, our old 
pastor, and he is always at Saint-Laurent, and never 
leaves his house. You can find him whenever you 
want him, and you know how fond he is of you !” 

“Oh, he was all very well when I was a little 
chap, but I don’t care to go to him. There’s no 
good insisting.” 


20 


306 Brother and Sister. 

“And where do you go to now?” 

“By Jove! I don’t know what the priest’s name 
is, but he suits me first rate.” 

Marguerite looked searchingly into my eyes, but 
I stood her gaze without flinching. 

“It is very strange,” she said. “I must believe 
you,” and she left me to begin her round of visits 
to the sick. 

She did not touch upon the subject again for the 
remainder of the holidays, but I could see that it 
was continually on her mind. 

We were alone at the Hutterie for the months 
of August and September. Charles and Lucie were 
traveling, and we did not look for a visit from them 
until the next year. 

The hunting season soon began, and I gave my- 
self up to my favorite sport with my usual ardor. 
And then those fair days passed like all things else, 
and towards the end of October, after sacrificing 
the first wood-cocks which appeared in our forests, 
I buckled my valise, and once more started off for 
Paris. 

“I do not know what state your soul is in,” said 
Marguerite gently, as she kissed me good-bye. “I 
cannot force your confidence. There is nothing left 
for me but to pray. Only promise me two things. 
Say a ‘memorare’ every day, and never doubt my 
affection.” 

I kissed her tenderly, much moved myself, and 
jumped on the train which carried me northward. 


The: Prodigal Son. 


307 


The second year, November, 1860, to July, 1861, 
was most disastrous to the interests of my soul. 
I not only resumed the sort of life I had been lead- 
ing, but I went much farther in my evil course. I 
entirely gave up my religion. 

I read execrable books, much more dangerous 
than those obscene productions which, though they 
kill the soul, it is true, do not at the same time de- 
stroy faith. The writers of whom I speak now aim 
higher than the heart; they seek to bring down the 
intellect by extinguishing the supernatural light, 
the divine torch of faith, which illumines it. This 
is not the work of an instant, and so it was slowly, 
day by day, that I absorbed the poison fed to my 
soul. 

I began by voluntary doubts against the truths 
of faith. Influenced by what I read, I took pleasure 
in my skepticism, caressing it and encouraging it 
because it spoke in the interest of my passions. I 
wished religion to be a lie, for if it were I might sin 
without compunction, and be relieved from the 
gnawing of conscience. Such is the history of al- 
most all who lose their faith. 

God is a restraint. If he did not exist, we could 
give ourselves up to pleasure, undisturbed by a sin- 
gle importunate apprehension, and our enjoyment 
would be much more free. So the head becomes 
the accomplice of the heart, and as grace, in just 
retribution, diminishes in proportion to the hard- 
ening of the will against it, the fatal hour comes 


308 


Brother and Sister. 


when the light of faith, flickering more and more 
faintly, at last goes out, and then darkness, a mortal 
darkness, settles down over the intellect, and be- 
cause God can no longer be seen, there are loud 
protestations that He does not exist. 

This was my story and that of many others. 
Everlasting praise and thanksgiving to the Divine 
Mercy which rescued me from this dark night, and 
kindled once more in my soul the flame which sin 
had quenched. 

This year I lived on the bounty of my sister-in- 
law. When the law-school closed, I returned to 
Anjou for the summer holidays. Charles and 
Lucie, with their young family increased by a sev- 
enth heir, had preceded me by several days. The 
Hutterie was very lively that year. Jeanne and 
Madeleine, Hippolyte and Charles, Louise and Claire 
and little Jean, the latest arrival, had brought sun- 
shine and joy with them, and the old house re- 
echoed as of yore to continual out-bursts of merri- 
ment and glee. Even Marguerite, who had seemed 
worn and depressed at the beginning of the vacation, 
recovered apparently her old-time health and spirits 
under the influence of the dear little ones. 

“O, Giuventu, prima vera della vita!” 

All went well for several weeks, but then the 
storm burst. Charles, to whom Marguerite had 
probably spoken of her fears in regard to me, frank- 
ly interrogated me on the subject. I was ready to 


The: Prodigal Son. 


309 


let Marguerite speak to me about my private affairs, 
even though I paid no attention to her advice, but 
I resented the interference of Charles, and, as he 
became rather heated in the course of his remarks, 

I flew into a rage, and we had a violent altercation. 
From that day forward I cherished bitter feelings 
against him, and I knew very well that I should 
burst forth on the slightest provocation. 

The hunting season opened that year on the first 
of September, which happened to be a Sunday. The 
evening before at dinner I was arranging with 
Charles the details of our expedition for the next 
morning. We had decided to start at six o’clock, 
after the first breakfast. 

“You are reckoning without your host, gentle- 
men,” said Lucie, suddenly breaking into the con- 
versation. “There will be no five o’clock mass to- 
morrow as there generally is on Sunday. Abbe 
Renard is ill and Abbe Richard will not say the first 
mass until eight. I have just come from Saint- 
Laurent, and the pastor himself told me that the 
hunters’ mass would be omitted. So you will begin 
your campaign by a little act of mortification.” 

“Oh ! very well,” said Charles, contentedly. “The 
hares and partridges will have three hours’ grace. 
We will start at half-past nine. That settles it.” 

“Pshaw !” I said with an air of supreme indiffer- 
ence, “we might just as well start at six.” 

“You would rather go to high mass, then?” an- 
swered Charles. “That strikes me as being very 
inconvenient.” 


310 


Brother and Sister. 


‘‘Oh,” I rejoined coldly, “we can very well dis- 
pense with high mass as well as low mass and me- 
dium mass and every other mass.” 

Everybody gazed at me in amazement. 

“You are joking, I suppose,” said Charles grave- 
ly. And then in an under tone, “Do not jest on such 
subjects before the children.” 

I had been angry with my brother for several 
days, and I seized this opportunity to push him to 
the limit of his endurance. 

“I am not joking,” I said loudly. “I am not going 
to mass to-morrow. You are free to do as you 
please. As for me, I gave up believing in all that 
nonsense some time ago.” 

If a thunder-bolt had struck the dining-room, it 
could not have stunned them all as my words did. 

Hippolyte, Charles, Madeleine and Jeanne opened 
their eyes wide, and stared at me in blank surprise. 
Lucie turned as white as a sheet, Marguerite cov- 
ered her face with her hands and wept aloud, Mad- 
emoiselle Dupont, the governess, did not know 
which way to look, and Cillette and Lexis, who were 
waiting on the table, stopped near the door with 
their hands full of plates as if petrified. 

Charles remained perfectly cool and composed, 
but there was an expression of deepest sadness on 
his face as he spoke to me gravely and severely. 

“You have given us all much pain, and I am 
sure you will be sorry for it before long, for you 
have a tender heart. As the head of the family 


The Prodigal Son. 


311 


and as a father, I am forced to protest in the presence 
of the children and of the servants, as they have all 
heard your blasphemous remark. But this does not 
fulfill all my obligations. I am your guardian (he 
laid stress upon the word). I shall be so for one 
year longer, and consequently it is my duty and my 
right to watch over your outward behavior. Mark 
well, I will not permit a repetition of such a scandal 
as this, and you must in future respect the faith in 
your words and by your conduct.” 

I got up, roused to the very depths. “I am 
turned out,” I said proudly. “Very well! I am 
quite able to take care of myself. I can dispense 
with the ridiculous allowance, which you only made 
me, it seems, in order to keep me under your thumb. 
It will be quite useless to write to me. I will not 
answer your letters,” and thereupon I marched up 
to my room, and began to make hasty preparations 
to leave. I was mad with pride, and intended to 
leave the Hutterie immediately and on foot in spite 
of Marguerite’s entreaties and also those of Charles, 
who generously blamed himself for being too hasty. 
At last I yielded to the point of taking the carriage, 
and then I turned my back upon my poor family, 
leaving them plunged in consternation and bitter 
grief. 

I have many a time since my conversion wept 
myself at the thought of the tears shed on my ac- 
count by those who loved me so much. How awful 
to think that I was also the cause of divine sorrow, 


312 


Brother and Sister. 


and that Our Lord during His passion wept for me! 

As I journeyed toward Paris I was pondering 
in my mind what I should do for a living, now that 
I had absolutely cut myself off from the family. 

I could no longer count on Lucie’s assistance. 
Frightened by the scene just described, she had told 
Charles and Marguerite then and there how she had 
for the past two years been sending me large sums of 
money under the impression that she was contribut- 
ing to my support and my education. This unex- 
pected revelation was a complete surprise to my 
brother and sister, who now realized what must 
have been going on. They had not the heart to re- 
proach Lucie, who began to comprehend what she 
had done, and accused herself, weeping, of being 
the cause of all the trouble, but her husband for- 
bade her to send me aid in the future under any 
pretext whatsoever without first consulting himself 
or Marguerite. The poor thing promised, and kept 
her word. 

Even so, I no longer needed her. Here is the 
plan I evolved for obtaining the money with which 
to continue my life of dissipation. I was not yet 
twenty years of age, and my signature being worth- 
less, no money-lender would have honored it, but 
one of my associates who had reached his majority, 
and was heir to a large fortune, undertook to go 
security for me. On these conditions a usurer agreed 
to lend me twenty thousand francs at ten per cent., 
after having ascertained that the following year I 


The: Prodigal Son. 


313 


would come into possession of my property, which 
was worth about twenty-four thousand francs, being 
half the value of Mesnil and the Hutterie, the in- 
heritance of myself and my sister. In this way a 
large sum of money was placed at my disposal, and 
I was better able than ever to give free rein to my 
passion for unlawful pleasures. 

In order to forestall any interference on the part 
of my family, I left my apartment in the Rue du 
Bac, without leaving any address, and took up my 
abode at the other end of the city in a furnished 
apartment, where I was known under an assumed 
name. By this means I hoped to render futile any 
attempt which my relatives might make to discover 
my whereabouts. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE ANGEX OF MEjRCY. 

F ROM the first part of September until the mid- 
dle of December, 1861 , I abused my health and 
strength by indulging in every sort of excess. I 
managed to get rid of fifteen or sixteen thousand 
francs in the restaurants or at the gambling table 
in the space of three months, and I was already 
thinking of contracting another loan on the same 
terms as the first, but the Good Lord did not leave 
me time. 

For several days I had been feeling languid and 
tired, and now I suddenly was seized with very high 
fever. When the fever left me, I felt dreadfully 
weak and exhausted. I knew I must have the advice 
of a physician, but I did not want to give my ad- 
dress to anyone but the people about me, so I sent 
for a carriage, and drove to the office of Dr. R., 
who had been recommended to me by a friend. 

All this time they were in the greatest state of 
anxiety at the Hutterie and at Lyons. The letters 
which had been sent to my address in the Rue du 
Bac or to the general delivery had not been an- 
swered. Marguerite was distracted. She had writ- 
ten to everyone who had known me when I first 
314 


The: Angee of Mercy. 


315 


went to Paris, to the director of the patronage where 
I used to spend my Sunday afternoons, to Abbe 
Hermant, to the president of the St. Vincent de 
Paul Conference and to all those with whom she 
thought I had had intercourse. All trace of me 
had been lost. Charles thought that as a last resort 
the police should be notified, and a search instituted, 
but Marguerite wished to avoid such measures, as 
she thought they would only exasperate me the more. 
She preferred to trust to Providence. 

On J:he eighteenth of December she wrote to 
Charles : “I am about to go to Paris. I hope Al- 
mighty God will direct me, and help me to find our 
poor boy. I am taking all my savings with me in 
case my stay should have to be prolonged. I in- 
tended this money for the poor, but if it give me 
the means to save my dear Paul’s soul, could it 
serve a better purpose?” 

She left the Hutterie on the morning of the nine- 
teenth and arrived in Paris that same evening. She 
went directly to the Rue du Bac, and finding my old 
quarters still vacant, she rented them by the month. 
The next morning at day-break she went to Notre- 
Dame-des-Victoires, and stayed there several hours 
at her prayers, begging the Blessed Virgin to help 
her find the lost sheep. Full of confidence she rose 
from her knees and left the church, walking straight 
ahead and trusting God to direct her steps. She had 
not gone two hundred yards when she caught sight 
of me in a passing carriage. (I was just returning 


316 


Brother and Sister. 


from my visit to the physician.) An exclamation 
of joy broke from her lips. “Paul! There he is! 
Oh, thank God!” 

Her cry made me turn. “Why, it is Marguer- 
ite!” and stopping the driver, I took my sister by 
the hand, and drew her to a seat in the carriage 
beside me. 

“Unkind boy!” she said, “how could you treat 
us all so!” And then in alarm she noticed my ap- 
pearance. “What has happened to you, poor child? 
Why, you are very ill! Your eyes are bright with 
fever. What is the matter with you, Paul dearest?” 

“I suppose I have typhoid fever,” I said, with a 
weak attempt at a smile, “at least, I have just been 
to a physician, and that is what he says. I cannot 
keep up any longer, and I hardly know what I am 
talking about.” 

“Never mind!” she said, “don’t be worried. I 
have come just in time to take care of you. The 
Good Lord has sent you a trained nurse. I know 
something about sickness, you remember.” She 
stopped the driver, who was taking us to my new 
number, and said to him, “Forty-eight, Rue du 
Bac.” “But I don’t live there any more.” “Rue du 
Bac,” she repeated authoritatively. I realized that 
a barrier was to be placed between me and my asso- 
ciates, but I made no further resistance, I was too 
far gone. 

As soon as we reached my old lodgings, Mar- 
guerite put me to bed, and told me not to be uneasy 


The Angel oe Mercy. 


317 


as she was going to get a physician and some neces- 
sary medicines. I was glad to have her near and 
to know that I was no longer deserted. “Now 
that ‘little mother’ has come, I have no more to 
say,” I said smiling, “You are at the helm. Do 
whatever you see fit.” 

She left me, promising not to be gone long. 

First she went to the telegraph office, and sent a 
dispatch to the Hutterie and to Lyons : “Paul found. 
He is sick. I will stay here.” She then proceeded 
to my new lodgings, where she quickly bundled 
up my belongings, and had them put into the car- 
riage. This done, she went in search of a phy- 
sician, whom she brought back with her and who 
examined me thoroughly. He also pronounced the 
case to be typhoid fever, and after leaving certain 
prescriptions, he departed, saying he would return 
in the morning. Marguerite had already established 
herself in the little room leading out of mine, and 
had a cot placed there, but she did not use it, for 
she never left my side day or night. 

It would be impossible to describe the devotion 
and tenderness with which she labored to save my 
life. For thirty days and nights the brave girl 
watched me continually. I was delirious from the 
first, and did not regain consciousness, and Mar- 
guerite would not allow herself to sleep for fear 
that she would lose the opportunity that a lucid in- 
terval might afford of reconciling my soul to God. 
For many days I hovered between life and death. 


318 


Brother and Sister. 


A priest came, and gave me conditional absolution 
and Extreme Unction, but I was not conscious. I 
have a vague recollection of seeing a person in black 
go through some motions at my bedside, but that is 
all. How many go to meet their God without re- 
ceiving the sacraments any more efficaciously than 
this! 

At last the justice of God was appeased by my 
sister’s prayers and tears, and I began slowly to 
come back to life. I remember so well the moment 
when I became conscious once more. My eyes fell 
on Marguerite sitting in an arm-chair by my bed, 
saying her beads. The poor child was a painful 
sight to behold. She was so pale, thin and altered 
that she looked worse than I did. “Is that you, 
Marguerite!” I said, softly. 

“At last!” she cried, “He knows me!” And she 
bent and kissed me, overcome with joy. I looked at 
her more closely, and I was frightened. Her hair 
had become gray, her cheeks were perfectly blood- 
less, her shoulders stooped, and a sharp dry cough 
racked her every now and then. 

“You have over-taxed yourself, dear Guitte,” I 
said, “You have killed yourself for a miserable 
wretch like me. It is all wrong.” 

She smiled brightly. “I am not dead yet,” she 
answered, “but if the salvation of your soul demands 
it, I may have to go even as far as that ! The sacri- 
fice would be nothing to me !” 

“Oh, don’t!” I said, much distressed. “Don’t 


Ths Angel o? Mercy. 319 

talk that way. You will make yourself ill in ear- 
nest, if you keep on imagining such things !” 

We were interrupted by the entrance of the doc- 
tor. After seeing me, he expressed himself as be- 
ing well satisfied. “You are out of danger/’ he 
said, “provided that you observe certain precau- 
tions. Before many days are over you will be fit 
to leave for Anjou. Meantime you must be abso- 
lutely still. But I am afraid, Mademoiselle,” he 
added, looking at Marguerite, “that you need rest 
more than your brother does. It is high time you 
were thinking of yourself. You have gone beyond 
your strength.” He little knew that the devoted 
child had watched at my pillow incessantly, day and 
night, for a month, fighting off sleep by the most 
violent efforts. It was nothing but her indomitable 
energy that kept her up. 

As soon as the physician gave us permission, we 
started for home. Marguerite had seemed a little 
better for some days past, which was probably due 
to the fact that she lay down at night. She care- 
fully attended to all the arrangements for the jour- 
ney, taking a sleeping coach in order that I might 
travel more comfortably, and as far as I was con- 
cerned, the trip was accomplished without the slight- 
est effort or fatigue. At the Hutterie all were in 
readiness to receive me, and to give me the care 
which my condition demanded. Native air worked 
wonders, and my convalescence was very rapid, so 
that in a short time I was able to go down stairs, 


320 Brother and Sister. 

and walk a little in the garden. My strength in- 
creased visibly. It was only February, but the air 
was as soft and balmy that year as if spring had 
already come, and before long I was well enough 
to take drives about the country. It was a great 
pleasure to see once more the fair land which I knew 
and loved so well, and had explored so thoroughly 
as a child when I used to go with Marguerite on 
visits to the sick and the poor. 

At the end of two months I was perfectly well 
again, but it was now my turn to be anxious. My 
beloved sister had completely exhausted her own 
strength and vitality in caring for me, and the state 
of her health gave me the gravest cause for alarm. 
To all my inquiries about her condition she would 
answer that she was better, that there was nothing 
the matter, that I must not worry about her, and that 
if she only had more self-control I would not notice 
anything out of the way; but, in spite of all her 
assurances, I was far from being easy. Charles 
came and spent a few days with us while I was con- 
valescing, and he insisted upon Marguerite’s con- 
sulting a physician. The doctor said that she was 
in a very serious condition and that the first symp- 
toms of consumption had plainly declared them- 
selves. He ordered absolute rest, said she must 
avoid all fatigue and take the greatest care of her- 
self, and he positively forbade her to make her usual 
visits to the sick, at least for the present. 

Realizing at last that it was her plain duty to take 


The Angee oe Mercy. 


321 


care of herself, she promised to follow out exactly 
the physician’s instructions. 

About the end of March I left her to return to 
Paris. I was certainly in a better state morally 
than before my illness. I was touched to the very 
bottom of my heart by the lofty and unselfish devo- 
tion of my poor sister, and I blamed myself severely 
for having caused her such bitter grief. As for 
Charles, his conduct towards me was most mag- 
nanimous. When I was getting better I had confided 
to Marguerite that I had borrowed twenty thousand 
francs, most of which had already been squandered. 
“The loss of money may be made good,” she said 
gently, “but who will restore your lost innocence?” 

As soon as Charles heard of the affair he said, 
“I will assume the debt. We don’t want our name 
to be connected with such a transaction any longer.” 
He went at once to Paris, and settled with my credi- 
tors, and when on his return I tried to thank him 
for what he had done, he answered cheerfully, “It 
is not altogether your fault that you are so inclined 
to be rash; but now do let’s begin to be more ra- 
tional! I don’t mean to reproach you,” he added, 
sighing, “I know how tender-hearted you are and 
that it is punishment enough for you to bear the 
anxiety about our poor dear sister, which is as hard 
upon you as it is upon me.” 

My dear brother and sister! I loved them, and 
was truly grateful to them, and longed to give 
some other proof of my feelings than mere expres- 


21 


322 


Brother and Sister. 


sions of gratitude, but as yet I could not give them 
the assurance for which they were waiting and hop- 
ing, and which would have amply rewarded them 
for all their trouble. I believe! No. I could not 
say it yet, for although a disgust for unlawful pleas- 
ures was beginning to spring up in my soul, my mind 
was still in darkness, — just punishment from God 
for having so long abused His grace. 

Before I went away Marguerite asked me if the 
sufferings of my long illness had not revived my 
faith, but I was obliged to answer in the negative. 
“No. Perhaps the time will come. I wish I could 
believe, but I cannot. Pray for me.” 

“Ah, well!” she said sadly. “The battle is not 
won yet, but it will be some day. I feel sure of it. 
I do not know God’s time.” 

The first part of April saw me in Paris once 
more. I was in the best of health, and able to re- 
sume the studies which I had neglected so utterly 
for two years past. I began a much more regular 
life — outwardly at least. I no longer gambled, for 
I had promised not to, and I kept my word. My ill- 
ness had subdued me to a certain extent, but yet I 
did not break away entirely from my former cul- 
pable relations. I hold that it is impossible for a 
young man with no religion to avoid violating the 
moral law, because, for such a one the moral law 
lacks its essential foundation. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A FIFE FOR A FIFE). 

A FTER my departure my sister’s disease began 
** to develop with alarming rapidity. She failed 
visibly from day to day. Sleeplessness, night-sweats, 
an inconquerable aversion to food soon exhausted 
her little remaining strength. Fine, thread-like lines 
of blood began to show in the expectorations, and 
then hemorrhages, more and more severe, an- 
nounced the fatal progress of the malady which was 
fast undermining a constitution naturally vigorous, 
but worn out before its time by the pious excesses 
of charity. Marguerite was only thirty-two years 
old. 

At this juncture Charles was ordered to Senegal 
as lieutenant-governor. This was a hard blow for 
him under the circumstances. That he would never 
see Marguerite again was almost certain, and, to add 
to his hardships, he was forced to leave for his 
new post quite alone. For several years past his 
wife’s health had caused him much anxiety, and it 
was out of the question to take her to such a place. 
The unwholesome climate would have proved fatal 
in a few months. Lucie, on the other hand, could 
not bear to be left behind. The very idea upset her 


323 


324 


Brother and Sister. 


completely, and she was also much distressed be- 
cause she could not go to Anjou and be with her 
sister-in-law, but the physicians absolutely forbade 
it. To tell the truth, she could not have done much 
good at the Hutterie. She would, indeed, have been 
more of a hindrance than a help, for the dear little 
woman was not at all capable, and did not know 
the first thing about taking care of a sick person. 
It would have resulted in Marguerite’s taking care 
of her. 

So it seemed that our dear Guitte was to be left 
to the care of Cillette and Lexis at the Hutterie. 
They were faithful and devoted servants, without 
doubt, and had been with their kind mistress ever 
since their childhood, and fairly worshiped her, but 
the poor creatures were clumsy and incapable of 
giving our dear invalid the care and attention which 
her condition demanded. 

When I heard of Charles’ orders, and knew that 
Lucie could not go to Anjou, I at first thought of 
going home myself and staying until the end came ; 
but Providence ordered all for the best. A great 
friend of Marguerite’s, Mademoiselle de la Croix, 
volunteered to go and live with her and take charge 
of the housekeeping. This proposal was most grate- 
fully accepted, and Mademoiselle de la Croix was 
soon established at the head of affairs. Her com- 
panionship was a great boon to my sister, for she 
not only relieved her of all external responsibilities, 
but cheered her, and helped her to bear the trying 
ordeal of her illness. 


A LitfE For a Li££. 


325 


Charles and I viewed this arrangement with the 
greatest satisfaction. It took a load off our minds, 
as we had the comfort of knowing that dear Mar- 
guerite was now sure of the most intelligent and 
devoted care. 

The good country people were in a state of utter 
consternation when they heard that Mademoiselle 
Leclere was in danger of death, and that the physi- 
cians had no hope of her recovery. Their grief was, 
if possible, even more intense than when she had 
come so near dying ten years before. 

Pilgrimages to Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secour, no- 
venas, Holy Communions, days and nights before 
the Blessed Sacrament, — all the supernatural means 
at their command were employed by the pious inhab- 
itants of Saint-Laurent and the neighboring parishes 
to obtain the cure of “la sainte demoiselle,” as they 
called her. God had once before given her back in 
answer to their prayers and vows, but now their 
supplications seemed without effect, and the strength 
of the invalid rapidly ebbed away. It seemed as if 
heaven begrudged her to the earth, and was has- 
tening the hour of her reward. 

The people at home had no very tender feelings 
towards me at that time, and, between ourselves, I 
did not deserve that they should. “It’s too bad, 
all the same!” was heard on all sides, “ Our dear 
young lady has worn herself out, and that’s the 
plain truth, by nursing Monsieur Paul, who has 
grown to be a wild fellow, if all they say is true. 


326 


Brother and Sister. 


He’d have done better to die after a good confession 
in place of his sister. If she goes he’s the one that 
will have to answer for it to us, that’s sure. It’s 
a true saying that the good go and the good-for- 
nothings are hard to kill.” 

For several years before this the apparitions of 
the Blessed Virgin at the Massabielle rocks had 
been talked about, but the pilgrims who visited the 
grotto were few in number at that time. The in- 
numerable throngs which now hasten to Lourdes 
from every diocese of France and from all over the 
Catholic world to venerate the spot whereon the 
Virgin Mother of God set foot had not yet been set 
in motion. However, although the press had not 
then echoed through the whole world the accounts 
of the wonders worked by the Mother of Mercy, 
here and there were heard tales of the extraordinary 
graces obtained, and these passing from mouth to 
mouth finally came to the knowledge of the faithful. 

Some one in Saint-Laurent had just been to Lour- 
des, and came back full of a miracle which had 
taken place there before his very eyes. The young 
girls of the sodality of the Blessed Virgin, of which 
Marguerite had been president for a number of 
years, listened eagerly to these reports, and all at 
once the same hope sprang up in their hearts. “Ah, 
if the Blessed Virgin would only work a miracle for 
us! She must do it, — we will pray so hard that 
she cannot help answering us. We will take Mad- 
emoiselle Leclere to Lourdes.” 


A For a Life. 


327 


From the plan to its execution is often a long 
way with men. Women, as a rule, act more 
promptly. 

Barely three days after they had first thought of 
the project twenty-five or thirty young girls of 
Saint-Laurent and the adjacent parishes had al- 
ready obtained permission to go to Lourdes with 
their beloved president. Mademoiselle de la Croix 
undertook to unfold their plans to Marguerite and 
to persuade her to submit to being taken to the 
Massabielle rocks. At this stage occurred some de- 
lay. Marguerite asked that she be given three days 
before deciding so that she might pray and reflect, 
for she would not undertake the journey without 
making sure that it was in conformity to God’s 
will. After mature deliberation she decided to go. 
“I do not agree to go because I wish to be cured,” 
she said to Mademoiselle de la Croix. “I would 
rather make my sacrifice complete and die, for you 
know whom. If I consulted my own wishes, I 
would not go, for I would much rather place myself 
in my heavenly Mother’s care just here where I 
am. But it seems to me that I have no right to 
deprive the Children of Mary of the immeasurable 
graces which the Blessed Virgin will shower down 
upon them at the place of her apparitions. So take 
my poor body there, and may the Divine Master dis- 
pose all things according to His good pleasure.” 

As soon as it was known that Marguerite was 
willing to go, there was universal rejoicing. It was 


328 


Brother and Sister. 


decided to start on Monday, the first of May. Forty 
young girls took part in the pilgrimage. The Com- 
tesse de Saint-Julien joined the travelers in order 
to give them the benefit of her experience and to 
see that Marguerite lacked for nothing. 

On the Wednesday following, our women of An- 
jou arrived at Lourdes, and hastened to lay their 
dear invalid at the feet of Mary Immaculate. For 
three days and nights their ardent prayers rose to 
heaven to obtain the favor so much longed for. 
Several young girls of the Sodality offered to God 
their own lives in exchange for the one which they 
wished at all costs to preserve. Some had come 
to Lourdes in the hope of being relieved from pain- 
ful infirmities of their own, but they now in the 
generous ardor of their love besought Mary to leave 
them to suffer and to cure Mademoiselle Leclere 
instead. 

And what did Marguerite do and say all this 
time? Resting upon a litter at the foot of the 
Blessed Virgin’s image, she placed herself entirely 
in her hands. “1 desire neither life nor death,” 
she prayed, “I only ask that you accomplish in 
my soul the desires of the Heart of Jesus. 1 And 
yet I have one desire, O, my God, one great desire. 
Dear Lord, you know what it is. I thirst for the 
soul of my brother with the thirst that you endured 
upon the cross for his soul and the souls of all 

1 Mademoiselle de la Croix, the intimate friend of my sister, 
afterwards told me what the substance of her prayers had been 
during the time she spent at Lourdes, 


A Life Lor a Life. 


329 


sinners. Take me in exchange, O, my God, a life 
for a life! Give me life eternal for my brother, 
and take my life in this world. Take my body, my 
heart and my soul. Strike, crush, consume me, O 
Lord, only give me, Oh, give me through Mary the 
soul of this child !” 

The sodalists prayed perseveringly but the Blessed 
Virgin did not seem to hear them. Two of those 
who offered up their lives for my sister were cured 
by the touch of the miraculous water, but Marguer- 
ite experienced no relief although she was several 
times immersed in the healing flood. 

At the end of three days it was time to think 
of leaving. The return journey was a little sad 
for the Children of Mary, as their most cherished 
hopes were now disappointed. Even those who had 
been cured could not rejoice over it. They felt al- 
most ashamed at receiving favors of which they 
believed they were unworthy. Nevertheless they 
left Lourdes in a spirit of resignation to the will of 
God. They were ready to correspond to the graces 
which they had received there, and they made from 
the depths of their hearts generous resolutions for 
the future. This is the great miracle of Lourdes, 
that Mary obtains supernatural resignation and 
peace for those whose prayers are not answered in 
accordance with their desires, and this grace, for 
those who can appreciate it, is far above any tempo- 
ral benefit, for it increases a hundred fold their eter- 
nal reward. 


330 


Brother and Sister. 


Marguerite realized this thoroughly, and when 
she left Lourdes her face was bright with joy. “I 
have more confidence than ever in the mercy of 
God,” she said to Mademoiselle de la Croix, “I am 
now firmly convinced that God will save my broth- 
er's soul for me and that before very long that soul 
will belong altogether to Him. What can all these 
physical sufferings, my cough and the hemorrhages, 
do to me now? I go away with the certainty that 
the vow I made seventeen years ago beside my 
father’s and my mother’s coffin has been heard. 
What more can I ask ? And what is life in compari- 
son?” 

The journey back to Saint-Laurent was made 
amidst perfect calm and serenity, and on Monday 
the eighth of May, our travelers returned once more 
to their homes. They regretted keenly that their 
prayers had not been granted, but they submitted 
quietly to the will of God. “The Blessed Virgin 
wants her Marguerite in heaven,” they said, “We 
are not worthy to keep her.” 

And now my sister grew much worse, and the 
physicians said that the end was not far off. Made- 
moiselle de la Croix notified me by telegram, and I 
returned post-haste to the Hutterie. 

My arrival gave Marguerite great joy, and her 
happiness at seeing me brought about a marked im- 
provement which lasted for some days. Spring was 
now well advanced, and as the air was very mild, 
Marguerite was even able to leave her arm-chair 


A LitfS For a Life:. 


331 


and take a few steps in the garden. Seeing the re- 
newed animation of her glance and the faint tinge 
of color in her cheeks, I began to hope once more, 
but the illusion was of short duration. The fever 
increased, there was a return of the hemorrhages, 
strength rapidly declined and my dear Marguerite 
never again left her bed of suffering. 

God permitted this soul to undergo great mental 
anguish, and strange interior trials were added to 
her bodily pains in order to purify her and prepare 
her for eternal bliss. In these hours of agony she 
sometimes confided her spiritual experiences to the 
faithful friend who watched by her bedside. “I no 
longer know the road I am traveling,” she said, 
“I do not know where my Jesus is any more.” 
Then she added, “And Paul, for whom I have shed 
every drop of blood in my veins and my heart, — 
I feel now as if he never would be converted, as if 
he would die in his sins and all my sufferings go for 
nothing.” 

Mademoiselle de la Croix told me afterwards 
that this thought tortured her horribly and that 
one might say that for a week she underwent a 
Gethsemane of torment. God willed that she 
should taste something of the agony of His Son 
weeping over impenitent sinners. 

As the angel in the garden consoled Our Lord, 
so her devout friend comforted Marguerite, remind- 
ing her of the confidence and spiritual delights she 
had experienced at Lourdes. The voice of Mary 


332 


Brother and Sister. 


had not vainly sounded in her heart, “Your broth- 
er’s soul is saved for all eternity.” 

Our Lord Himself came to fortify his faithful 
servant. Every morning for two weeks one of the 
assistants at Saint-Laurent escorted by a number of 
faithful parishioners, came to bring her Holy Com- 
munion, and receiving the Body and Blood of her 
God, she drew thence strength to sustain the fierce 
combat. 

After this period of interior desolation, when 
Our Lord had hidden His face for a time, He re- 
newed His tender favors toward His well-beloved 
child, and from that time forward her thirsty soul 
drew long draughts from the fountain of living 
waters. 

On the afternoon of May twenty-seventh, the vigil 
of Pentecost, about six o’clock, Marguerite seemed 
somewhat revived after a short sleep. “I would like 
to look out,” she said. We hastened to gratify her 
wish, and pulled her bed close up to the window. 

It was a lovely evening. The soft sweet-scented 
air enwrapped the fields which stretched out before 
us to where on the distant horizon flowed the Loire, 
its waters red-tinged in the rays of the declining 
sun. At our feet the Gemme, reflecting the emer- 
ald tints of its banks, ran singing beneath the flow- 
ering willows, across the meadows where shone 
“like stars sown thick” blue hyacinths and white 
daisies. In the wooded thickets of the garden, black- 
bird and linnet, bull-finch and nightingale sang in 


A Lifle Eor a LitfS. 


333 


a very ecstacy of joy, mingling their pearly notes 
with the harmonious murmur of the stream. 

Often and often, seated at the window, my sister 
and I had looked out upon this fair scene. Even 
now I admired it still, but my heart sank beneath the 
pressure of an overwhelming sorrow. I knew that 
we were together for the last time, and that an awful 
void was about to come into my life. This sweet 
sister whom I loved more than the whole world, this 
choice spirit and frail graceful body that pitiless 
death was about to cast into the grave, my beloved 
Marguerite, was slipping from me to fall back into 
eternal nothingness! 

I had then no other belief, O my God, and it 
was blasphemies like these that passed through my 
mind, even in the presence of a saint about to die ! 

“How are you now, little sister ?” I said after a 
long silence, “Are you tired of being at the window ? 
Shall we put you back again ?” 

“Oh, no!” she said, breathing with difficulty, 
“Leave me here a little longer. I love to look out 
over the country. It makes me think of Paradise.” 

“O, Lord, how beautiful are Thy works,” she 
went on, her gaze wandering over the prairies, “and 
how Thou hast adorned our habitation of a day! 
And yet how poor earth seems when we look to 
heaven and to Our Father’s house, where we shall 
enter in so soon ! O Paul, what must it be up there 
when the figure of this world shall pass away, and 
we shall enjoy forever the sight of God!” Her 
anxious gaze scanned my face. 


334 


Brother and Sister. 


“Yes, of course, sister,” I answered, mechanically. 
A tear glided down her cheek. 

“Poor child !” she said. “He sees nothing beyond 
this life. He still does not know Thee, O my God !” 

She was still. A few moments after I saw her lips 
move silently, her eyes look upward toward the sky 
and her countenance take on an expression of in- 
describable peace and happiness. Her gaze rested 
upon an object invisible to mine, which she met with 
that ineffable smile which greets the absent one 
long waited for. Now she seemed to listen in ecs- 
tacy to words delightful to her ear, and then to 
speak in her turn and put her whole soul into one 
burning deprecation. 

I called her several times. She did not seem to 
hear. I passed my hand before her eyes, but her 
gaze remained fixed and bright, as if illumined by 
the marvelous vision which ravished her interior 
senses. 

For some time longer the soul, although still held 
by its earthly bonds, remained in that beatific state, 
a foretaste of everlasting felicity. 

At last she came back to earth, and after a long 
sigh turned to me with a look of indescribable happi- 
ness and affection. “Good-bye, dear brother,” she 
said, “I leave this world in joy and peace because I 
have won your soul. Mary has given it to me for- 
ever. The hour is very near when you too will say 
‘My God, I love Thee above all things !’ ” 

I had fallen on my knees beside her bed. Her 


A Life Lor a Life. 


335 


pure hand rested on my brow. Suddenly her eyes, 
closed for an instant, opened once more, her lips 
pronounced for the last time the Holy Name of 
Jesus, and then smilingly she departed from this 
world, just as the evening breeze bore over the coun- 
try side the first strokes of the Angelus. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE DEVIl/S POOL, (1862). 

F OR a long time I wept beside the mortal remains 
of my beloved Marguerite. Most heavy was my 
sorrow, and inconsolable, for I had no hope of ever 
seeing again this loved being, whom death had 
wrested from my affection. My tears were barren 
and shed in vain, whereas the devout friend of my 
sister and our good servants, who had the happi- 
ness of believing, tempered their grief by means of 
the thoughts inspired by faith. 

At last, oppressed by my sobs, I left the room. 
I felt the need of solitude and of the open air. Al- 
ready the sad news was spreading throughout the 
neighborhood, and many people were making their 
way toward the Hutterie to pray and weep over the 
remains. I wanted to avoid the crowd of visitors 
and the ordeal of receiving their condolences. I 
told the servants to send everyone away by ten 
o’clock and to leave the door open for me. They 
were not to be uneasy in case I should not return 
until later. 

These directions being given, I walked rapidly 
away, following the Gemme towards its source. 
I was in a highly over-wrought, nervous condition, 


336 


337 


The Devil's Pool ( 1862). 

and felt that I must be in motion. I walked steadily 
for about an hour, and my nerves were quieted and 
my excitement calmed, and being tired I threw my- 
self down on the river-bank to rest a while. 

It was about nine o’clock. The night was won- 
derfully clear, and the stars gleamed throughout 
the entire expanse of the firmament. In my rapid 
course I had without noticing it reached the Devil’s 
Pool, that deep place in the river where I had been 
almost drowned the evening before my first Holy 
Communion. 

This recollection carried me back to the days of 
my childhood. 

Once more I thought I saw my father setting out 
for Paris at the time of the June riots. Next it was 
the awful scene which followed so soon after the 
parting, — my mother stricken down by the news 
of my father’s death. Then I was in Marguerite’s 
arms, and heard her promising to be my “little 
mother.” Marguerite! Ah, she was everywhere in 
my life ! Her dear features with their lovely expres- 
sion and motherly smile were stamped indelibly upon 
my heart. She had watched over me from my ten- 
derest years, supplying with never-failing love all 
my needs of body and of soul. Ah, how dear I 
cost her ! It was for me she broke her heart and that 
of Rene de Saint Julien when she refused him, 
although they loved each other so dearly. And 
later on in my boyhood how often I had made her 
suffer. What tears my conduct had caused her after 


22 


338 


Brother and Sister. 


I went to live in Paris ! And then the care lavished 
upon me day and night during my long illness. 
Then were sown the seeds of that fatal disease which 
had brought her to the grave. If I were still in the 
land of the living, it was because she had saved my 
life at the expense of her own. I had never seen 
it all so clearly as I did to-night. The thought 
stirred my heart to its very depths, and the tears 
sprang to my eyes. 

At that moment my eyes fell upon the deep waters 
which had so nearly been my grave ten years before. 
It was also like to-day, the eve of Pentecost. I was 
returning from Saint-Laurent. I had just been 
to confession preparatory to receiving my first Holy 
Communion on the morrow. In imagination I re- 
viewed all the details of that scene which was forever 
graven on my memory : my fall into the pool before 
Marguerite’s despairing eyes, then all that had been 
described to me afterwards, the wild gallop to the 
house, Fan fan’s marvelous leap over the bars and 
the Newfoundland tearing to the river and plung- 
ing to the bottom of the pool. Then I saw myself 
stretched out upon the grass and Marguerite bend- 
ing over me with restoratives. Marguerite smil- 
ing and happy, saying in the fullness of her joy, 
“You are safe now, my dearest. Thank God, and 
never forget His goodness.” 

God ! In those days I had believed in Plim. And 
I called to mind the thoughts that had chased one 
another through my brain as I sank into the deep 


The Devh/s Pooe (1862). 


339 


water. “I am, I hope, in a state of grace. If I die 
now I shall be saved.” I remembered, too, how 
Marguerite had told me of her prayers while I was 
in the water. “My God, if the child would lose his 
soul were he to live and grow up, do not let him 
come out of the water alive, because I know that 
now he is pleasing to Thee.” 

That is what I was ten years ago, — and now? 
What would become of me if death were to overtake 
me at the present moment ? 

Just then a vivid emotion took complete posses- 
sion of me. I became conscious of the action of 
grace upon my soul. It impelled my intellect to 
adhere unreservedly to the truths of faith, truths 
which in my youth had appeared luminous, but which 
were now hidden from my eyes as it were by a cloud. 
“You have seen. You can see again if you will; 
ask God to remove the cloud.” And I heard in my 
heart a voice which cried out to me, “Pray! Your 
fate for all eternity depends on this instant. If you 
pray, God will come to you. If you will not, you 
shall be cast off for all eternity.” 

And as on the day when I knelt before the altar 
in Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, a violent struggle took 
place between grace which sought possession of my 
soul and pride which rose up against it. In Paris 
two years before, I had deliberately refused divine 
assistance, had risen quickly, and by a violent effort 
downed the salutary emotions which had arisen 
within me, and Mary had not been able to reclaim 


340 


Brother and Sister. 


me. But to-night there was an angel praying for 
the sinner, an angel who throughout her mortal life 
had suffered in order to procure the extraordinary 
grace of that moment. My dear Marguerite ob- 
tained for me from the Mother of Mercy the 
strength to correspond to that first inspiration of the 
Holy Ghost. From the depths of my heart a prayer 
went up to God. “Mercy, Lord! I wish to be- 
lieve ! Help my weakness. Grant that I may see !” 
Immediately I felt a growing force which beat down 
pride by showing me my own nothingness, and I 
cried out again, “Lord, I am a miserable sinner. 
Have pity on my weakness. Give me faith.” And 
grace flooding my soul, gently led my long rebellious 
will. The dense cloud which had obscured the mo- 
tives of belief was torn aside, and I saw as I had seen 
before the impure vapors of sin had enslaved my 
heart and clouded my intellect. I saw how the 
Church is divine, how the Son of God made man has 
established it upon immovable foundations, because 
it is built upon His power and His infinite truth. 
The miracles of the gospel, the resurrection of Jesus 
Christ, the testimony of the apostles, the foundation 
of the Church, the conversion, humanly speaking 
impossible, of the pagan world, the luminous trace 
of that Church throughout the ages and her weak- 
ness triumphant even to-day as yesterday and for- 
ever over the most formidable assaults of which the 
power of man is capable, — all these irrefutable rea- 
sons for our faith were focused in one stream of 
light whose evidence forced itself upon my mind. 


The: De:vii/s Pool ( 1862 ). 


341 


I had acquired in early youth a thorough and 
sound knowledge of my religion, and my faith had 
been cultivated with the most watchful care first by 
Marguerite and later by the priests at Saint-Irenee, 
who had continued her work. Grace now enlisted 
in its cause this foundation of solid doctrine in order 
to make plain to the eye of reason the motives of 
Catholic belief. But the sudden and swift conquest 
of my intellect by the truth and the irresistible at- 
traction of my will towards this truth newly recov- 
ered can only be explained by a miracle of grace, 
which had been obtained for me by the angel who 
was praying for me in heaven. 

God had triumphed. On my knees on the river 
bank in sight of the deep pool from which I had 
been saved by God’s mercy, I said over and over 
again my credo, and at each article of the symbol 
of faith I cried from the bottom of my heart, “Lord, 
I believe. Help Thou mine unbelief.” 

And now the powers of hell, enraged at sight of 
their victim snatched away, prepared to make a last 
terrible onslaught. 

My soul was pervaded with gloom and pierced 
with anguish. Anxiety took possession of me, and 
I was assailed by the horrible temptation of despair. 

“You believe? Believe if you will, you will be 
none the less culpable, for you will never live up to 
your faith. How will you be able to renounce habits 
of such long standing, break relations to which you 
are knit by the closest ties and be restrained by the 


342 


Brother and Sister. 


austere rules and confining yoke of religion? Do 
you think it possible for you to lead a pure life for 
the time that remains to you? Fool that you are! 
You are not ignorant of your own weakness. It 
has already been proved, and in those days your hab- 
its were not inveterate as they are now. No, No! 
You are asked to do that which is impossible to 
human weakness, and you will be damned in any 
case, not, perhaps, for lack of faith, but for not sub- 
jecting the natural inclinations of your heart to the 
rigorous law of the gospel. Wretched man! Your 
heart cannot live without loving, and God commands 
you to suppress its beating, Enjoy life then. That 
is true wisdom !” 

Then evil voices resounded in my ears, and dis- 
turbed my soul to the very depths. I was like a 
vessel in danger of wreck, which during an interval 
of calm is about to recover its course, when sud- 
denly it is again cast into the very midst of the 
tempest. And while the song of the sirens awak- 
ened sad echoes in my heart, there seemed, in the 
darkness, to glide before my mental vision the fatal 
images which had seduced my youth. They passed 
to and fro before my eyes, mocking my agony, 
and I heard ever, like the son of Monica, alluring 
voices murmur softly, “How can you live without 
me?” 

I felt powerless before the assault of sensuous de- 
lights. I wished to return to God, who had but now 
enlightened my mind, but the phantoms of sin re- 


343 


The Devii/s Pool ‘(1862). 

claimed me in spite of myself, and strove to drag 
me far away. 

And now another voice reached my heart, no 
longer languishing and seductive like those which 
had so long bound me. This clear, pure voice fell 
gently on my soul as snow falls upon the mead- 
ows. It was strong, too, and roused my courage 
and made me strong with the power of God. “My 
child, it is not in your own strength that you will 
find the secret of victory, but in God and in His 
grace, and this grace will always be granted you if 
you ask it of Him whose gift it is. It is true that 
you are weak, but were they not also weak, and 
had they not the same frail nature as yours, those 
young men and maidens who have entered into glory 
after suffering these same trials and walking by this 
same rough pathway ?” 

And it seemed to me that Marguerite was there, 
though I could not see her, and that the words which 
I had just heard fell from her lips. God sent her 
to help me in my terrible struggle as she had be- 
fore in this very place saved me from death. 

Hell was conquered. I gained a second victory. 
After recovering my faith I had also found confi- 
dence once more, and though aware of my own im- 
potence, I was prepared to face the battle of life 
with divine assistance. 

O, that marvelous night which I passed there, 
yielding up my soul to the torrents of grace which 
inundated it ! O, the wonders of that Pentecost, that 


344 


Brother and Sister. 


descent of the Holy Ghost upon my heart and my 
whole being! The light from on high now showed 
me all my sins, inspiring in me so deep a horror for 
them that my tears flowed in streams. Then by 
that same light was manifest the infinite mercy of 
God, the love of Jesus Christ dying for me upon the 
cross and the tenderness of Mary for poor sinners. 

Long I remained in prayer and when at last I 
arose, the dawn of the great feast already paled the 
stars. 

I set out at once for Saint-Laurent. I was in 
haste to set the seal upon my reconciliation and to 
cast myself, poor prodigal that I was, into the arms 
of the Father whom I had offended. I had been 
preparing all the night for confession by consider- 
ing my sins and by sincere acts of contrition. 

I reached the house of Abbe Aubry at about five 
o’clock in the morning, and found that the holy old 
man, faithful to his life-long habits, was already up 
and at his prayers. 

As soon as he saw me he said, putting out his 
arms, “Ah, my son, you have come to tell me that 
our dear Marguerite has left us for heaven !” 

“Yes, Monsieur le cure,” I replied, “she left this 
world last night at seven, and already her inter- 
cession has obtained the conversion of a sinner. I 
am that sinner, and I now come to you to be recon- 
ciled to God.” 

“Ah, my child, my dear child!” exclaimed the 
old man, deeply touched, “It has come at last ! that 


The Devii/s Pool (1862). 


345 


for which we have so longed and for which your 
dear good little sister offered up her tears and bitter 
sufferings.” 

I fell on my knees at the priest’s feet, and I made 
my confession with deep contrition, to which my 
tears gave evidence. When I had finished, Abbe 
Aubry said to me, “You remember what you said 
to Marguerite on the eve of your first Ploly Com- 
munion just ten years ago to-day? 'Can one offend 
God after he has made his First Communion?’ You 
have answered yourself, my son; but take courage. 
There is more joy in heaven over the conversion of 
one sinner than over the perseverance of ninety and 
nine just. Live henceforth for the God whom you 
were so unfortunate as to betray, and may the mem- 
ory of your sins be a spur to your love.” 

I bowed my head and the minister of Jesus Christ 
pronounced the formula of absolution. 

“Now go,” said Abbe Aubry, “and renew your 
First Communion on this holy feast of Pentecost, 
full for you of unspeakable wonders.” 

I took leave of the old man, and made my way to 
the church, where I heard mass, and received the 
Body and Blood of my Saviour. After my thanks- 
giving, during which Our Lord in His mercy show- 
ered divine favors upon me, I returned home. I 
was in haste to kneel in the presence of my sister’s 
body to do her homage for her conquest, and more- 
over I wanted to commence at once to make repara- 
tion for the scandal I had given by signifying my 
repentance to all who might be present. 


346 


Brother and Sister. 


When I reached the Hutterie, I found the room 
filled with people praying devoutly. The Children 
of Mary of Saint-Laurent had clothed Marguerite 
in white, and had put on her head the wreath she 
had worn for her First Holy Communion. She 
seemed as though asleep in perfect peace and seren- 
ity. Upon her lips her last smile still lingered. Pre- 
maturely aged by trials and the long sufferings of 
her illness, she had recovered after death the fresh, 
fair looks of her youth. 

I fell upon my knees and made in a distinct voice, 
which could be heard by everyone there, that pro- 
fession of sorrow and love which Marguerite, just 
before her death, had said I would soon pronounce : 
O my God , I love Thee above all things! 


CHAPTER XX. 


FROM BEYOND THE TOMB. 

A FTER praying a long time beside my sister’s 
** remains, I went to give some directions regard- 
ing the funeral, which was to take place the next 
day, but one. Then I sat down to write to Charles 
and to Lucie. My poor brother! How hard it 
would be for him to hear of his sister’s death, away 
off there in Senegal, deprived of the consolation he 
would have found in the presence of his dear ones! 
And Lucie, — the blow would be a severe one for her 
in the present state of her health. On this account 
I decided that I would not announce to her directly 
the news of our loss. I wrote to Abbe Lefort, the 
superior of Saint-Irenee, to beg him to break the 
news gently to my sister-in-law. 

When I went down to the kitchen to give Lexis 
my letters to mail, I found Cillette burning bundles 
of papers in the fire-place. “What are you doing?’’ 
I said to her. 

“My mistress told me to burn all the writing I 
would find in her drawers as soon as ever she was 
dead, Monsieur Paul,” she answered, “I am nearly 
through now, but, my, how much there was!” 

A few scattered sheets had escaped the flames, 


347 


348 


Brother and Sister. 


and I hurriedly gathered them up to save them from 
the fate of all the rest. “You should have come to 
me first,” I said to the girl rather crossly. 

“Don’t scold me, Monsieur Paul,” replied she, 
sobbing, “It broke my heart, too, to throw anything 
our dear mistress had touched, into the fire, but I 
had to do what she told me. Only day before yester- 
day she sent for me to her room, called me up to 
her bed and took me by the hand and said, ‘My good 
girl, after I am dead you are to take all the letters 
and writing out of the chest of drawers and the 
desk, and burn them all — every bit. I wish it. Do 
you understand?’ ‘Yes, Mistress,’ I said. ‘Very 
well,’ she said, ‘I trust you, then.’ So you see, 
Master, it was the only thing I could do.” 

I knew that Marguerite was accustomed to write 
down her private thoughts and opinions on matters 
which interested her, and I had looked forward to 
keeping those precious note-books for the rest of my 
life. They seemed almost like relics. I was bitterly 
disappointed to discover that my treasures were al- 
ready destroyed. I told Cillette to give me all that 
she had not burned, and I hurried back to my room 
to read and put in order what little remained. 
There were only about twenty scattered pages, some 
of which were scorched and illegible, together with 
a dozen or so of letters. (My sister always kept 
copies of her correspondence.) This was all. The 
gleanings were poor indeed compared to the plentiful 
sheaves that were lost, for Cillette acknowledged 


Prom Beyond the Tomb. 


349 


that it had taken her two hours to burn the papers 
she had taken from the secretary. “I never would 
have believed,” she said, “that anybody could write 
as much as that !” 

On my knees I read those precious pages. I trans- 
cribe them simply according to the date of their 
writing. I have indicated by asterisks the places 
where the flames had done their work. 

[Fragment from the Journal .] 

La Hutterie, July 1, 1848. 

Here I am left alone in the world! My beloved father 
killed at the barricade after leaving us only three weeks 
ago in perfect health and vigor, and poor mother carried 
off by the terrible blow. 

We were so happy one month ago, and now how terribly 
lonely and deserted I feel! The house seems so empty 
and desolate! I am afraid to look into the future; it seems 
so gloomy. In a few days Charles will leave me to rejoin 
his regiment. And poor little Paul, an orphan when he is 
only six! After this I must be father and mother to him, 
and I am only a child myself — not yet eighteen! 

Yes, I know, I have promised, have bound myself by a 
vow to mother to consecrate my life to my little brother. 
I have promised Almighty God, too, and in spite of all this 
I am afraid. I shrink from the heavy cross which has fallen 
upon my shoulders. I feel as if my life, although it is only 
just begun, is from this time forward blighted, crushed, an- 
nihilated. I will keep my word, but how dear this child 
will cost me! I know that I, too, had the vocation to bring 
up a family, to be a mother. How tenderly I would have 
loved my husband and my children. But now I am like a 
widow already, whom every one will avoid, because I am 
almost reduced to poverty, and I have to take care of Paul 
besides. 

But how can I talk like this! Selfishness must have 


350 


Brother and Sister. 


taken deep root in my miserable heart, for if I loved the 
cross ever so little, I would lift it bravely instead of drag- 
ging myself along beneath its weight like the miserable 
coward that I am. And Paul, poor little soul! how much 
he loves me! He trusts me and calls me his little mother. 
If it were not for me his bodily welfare and even more, the 
health of his soul, would certainly be endangered. Father 
and mother have left him to me. God himself has placed 
him in my arms, and shall I be so wicked as to fail in my 
task and abandon him? Never! I am his mother, and I 
' will be until death. I love him dearly now, but I will ask 
God to make me love him more and more. 

A moment ago I was complaining of being left alone. 
How could I say so! God is here. I am not alone. My 
heavenly Father is always with me, and Our Lord, who 
lets me receive Him almost every morning. How can I 
be so ungrateful as to feel deserted when the Beloved of 
my heart never leaves me! 

What I dread most is that we have to go and live' with 
Aunt Dumoulin. She is a good woman, but her manners 
are common and so are her thoughts. What delightful 
conversations we will have at table! And then her dispo- 
sition — she is so queer in some things! And then I am 
so quick-tempered and hasty. Why, I even used to answer 
mother back sometimes! I am so afraid I will not control 
myself. 

But, there! Let us take things little by little as they 
come. For every day its little drop of myrrh. There will 
be nothing very heroic about it, but in this way one can 
get nearer and nearer to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and at 
last leave self behind, and live only in Him and for Him. 
It will not be the work of a day or an hour or a year. It 
is the blessed end toward which we tend continually by 
constantly repeated victories over self. . . . 

[I find this on the corner of a page which must, I 
think, have followed the above] : 

This is the trial that I dread. I feel sad even unto 
death, but I will not listen to myself, and in the days to 


From Beyond the Tomb. 


351 


come, in all the difficulties that I am sure to encounter, 
I will just say over to myself in a generous spirit my dear 
motto, “All for Jesus, come what may!” 

[To her brother Charles .] 

Mesnil, July 15, 1850. 

My dear Charles: — 

The news you have to tell is very pleasant. And so you 
are soon to be married! I thank God for it, because all the 
circumstances which you mention go to show that your 
union will be blessed and that you will be very happy. 
Lucie Robert has, or rather will have an immense fortune. 
“This is no harm,” you say. True, and yet, dear brother, if 
I did not know you so well, I could not help being a little 
worried at the thought of your suddenly becoming enor- 
mously wealthy. I know this fortune does not belong to 
you personally, but it is practically the same thing, as your 
intended is the only child and Monsieur Robert means to 
make you both a considerable allowance. That which pre- 
vents my being very anxious is the simplicity of your tastes, 
your spirit of faith and your love of the poor. These 
characteristics will, I hope, help you to be a “good rich 
man.” But even so I am a little doubtful, because I know 
how easy it is, when one has great riches, to become at- 
tached to them without knowing it, so to speak, and to 
become proud of one’s station and end by gradually putting 
worldly advantages before the things which are eternal. 

There is still another thought which might disturb me if 
I did not know my brother’s heart so well, and that is that 
henceforth there will be a great difference in the eyes of 
the world between Monsieur and Madame Charles Leclere 
and the poor orphans of Mesnil. But you may be sure that 
on that score I am quite easy, because I know that you 
would give all the treasures of Peru for your little Paul 
and your sister Marguerite. 

You say that Lucie is serious-minded and truly pious, 
and that people of sound judgment praise her qualities of 
mind and heart. You are congenial, you love one another 


352 


Brother and Sister. 


and the father is satisfied, so all is as it should be. Those 
who are fond of a mean joke might say that the crowning 
point of your good fortune is that you will have no mother- 
in-law. But you are too sensible and too kind-hearted to 
even think of that. 

It looks now as if it would be out of the question for 
me to go to Lyons in time for your wedding in the second 
week of August. I have too much to do here. There is 
at present a great deal of sickness at Saint-Laurent, and a 
good many are in danger of death. I may be of some use 
to all these poor people. Then, too, I am a little uneasy 
about my aunt’s health, and I do not think I ought to leave 
here just now. In spite of all this I will do my utmost 
to go to you, even if I can only stay two or three days. 
It would be hard for both of us not to be together for such 
a momentous event. But in any case you will not blame 
me. You know that I am with you in spirit and that I will 
pray fervently for your happiness. Tell Lucie I shall be 
so very glad to see her. I have set my heart on having you 
at the Hutterie, your country seat, for two weeks of your 
honeymoon, and I have already given orders to have every- 
thing ready for you by the end of August. What a happy 
fortnight we will spend together! The little green path- 
way between Mesnil and the Hutterie will be used very 
often then, I am certain. 

Our life here is very monotonous, as you know. The 
ideal does not rule at Mesnil. But do not be uneasy. Ev- 
erything goes on well. Paul is really remarkably good. 
He is just eight, but he has grown so you would think he 
was twelve. His rapid growth does not seem to affect his 
health at all, and he is perfectly well. He is hungry as a 
wolf, sleeps uninterruptedly from eight o’clock every night 
until six the next morning, and he laughs and plays bliss- 
fully except when lesson time comes, and then I make him 
apply himself in earnest. So far he has not given me a 
bit of trouble, although his temper is as quick as gun- 
powder. I anticipate difficulties — serious ones perhaps — 
in the more or less distant future, but just now all is serene. 


From Beyond the: Tomb. 


353 


As for me, sometimes I am a little sad, but it is noth- 
ing. It will pass off. 

You make me laugh when you say you want me to 

marry your friend, A , staff-officer to General de Castel- 

lane, that the matter is being arranged and this excellent 
man will accidentally, be in the neighborhood of the Hutte- 
rie during your stay there, and you then mean to present 
him to me. 

Get all that nonsense out of your head. I forbid you to 
have him come here. I am in earnest about it. You know 
very well that I will not marry, at least not for the pres- 
ent. We should have to ask Master Paul’s consent, which 
would in all likelihood be withheld, and then we would 
have a “respectful summons” on our hands! But I am 
wasting my time with all this nonsense. A thousand good 
wishes to Lucie, and may we soon have the pleasure of 
seeing her. Your sister. 

Marguerite. 

(To her Sister-in-law .) 

Mesnil, September 15, 1850, 

My dear sister Lucie: — 

I have been with you in thought and desire very often 
since your departure from the Hutterie. The days you 
spent with us seemed very short, and I can hardly wait for 
the time to come around which will bring you to our Anjou 
once more. Do not think that I am paying you compli- 
ments, dear sister; I am perfectly sincere in what I say, 
and I thank God for giving you to my brother. For a 
long time I have been praying to the Blessed Virgin to 
help him to find a true Christian wife whose ideas and 
sentiments would be in consonance with his own, and now 
my prayer has been answered. As for you and me, dear 
Lucie, we love each other and sympathize with each other 
and this is another favor for which I must thank Provi- 
dence, for this perfect accord does not, unfortunately, ex- 
ist in every family. Paul overflows with gratitude to you 
for all the toys you brought him. But enough, if you 


23 


354 


Brother and Sister. 


please! Do not give my little brother another thing for a 
year at least. Otherwise you will spoil him for me, I can 
see that plainly. 

[To the Same.] 

Mesnil, September 18, 1850. 

How can I thank you for your thoughtful gift? I had 
hardly sent off my letter of the fifteenth when the hand- 
some phaeton and beautiful little horse of which you write 
arrived. He is a very valuable animal and must, so they 
all say, have cost a pretty penny. I really am embarrassed 
at having you spend so much money on me. I tried my 
fine steed yesterday with Madame de Saint Julien, who is a 
judge as you know, and we were delighted with his spirit, 
speed and endurance. Paul is teazing me to allow him to 
get on his back. So far I have been afraid to let him, but 
the horse seems to be so gentle and so well trained that I 
shall probably end by yielding. 

Many rich people might well envy me my turn-out, and 
I shall feel very grand, rolling along like a fine lady in such 
an elegant equipage. If I get to be very vain, whose fault 
will it be? 

I was just about to seal this letter when the beautiful 
Erard piano came. Really, dear Lucie, it is too much. I 
am overcome with grateful feelings which I do not know 
how to express. The only thing now is for you to come 
again very soon. We will give, you and I, delightful con- 
certs, and take some glorious drives in your little carriage. 
I will show you the beauties of Anjou. Of course, here, 
you can not have .... 

The rest is missing. 

(To Father N .) 

[This religious had the year before given a retreat at Angers, 
which Marguerite attended. After that she sometimes wrote to 
him for advice.] 

Mesnil, September 20, 1852 

Reverend Father: — 

When I took leave of you at the close of our retreat last 
October, you were so good as to point out to me what ought 


From Beyond the Tomb. 


355 


to be the key-note to all my spiritual life. “Confidence, my 
child,” you said, “Confidence! Absolute, unwavering con- 
fidence! In the tempest or in the deepest shadow, confi- 
dence no matter what happens, confidence always!” 

I do all I can to have confidence, but, Father, sometimes 
it is so hard! And how soon confidence vanishes when 
one is oppressed by weariness and disturbed by fears. 

Ever since last year interior desolation and dryness have 
noticeably increased. You predicted this, and you do not 
consider it to be a sign that I am losing ground, but rather 
an indication of progress, as long as I do my best to be 
faithful to prayer and to my daily duties. 

I wish to obey and to pay no attention to the temptations 
to despondency, but I find it very hard. 

People think that I pray easily and with unction and that 
I have much devotion and am filled with heavenly delights 
.when I go to Holy Communion. This makes me laugh to 
myself. I, who am like a stone when I receive Our Lord! 
The other day a young girl of Saint-Laurent, a Child of 
Mary who belongs to the Sodality of which I am president, 
said to me innocently, “O, Mademoiselle, I wish I could 
pray the way you do and be as happy as you are when you 
receive Our Lord. Tell me what you do.” She went wide 
of the mark, poor child! I don’t remember now what I 
said to her. Some foolishness, I suppose. 

But the thought that torments me more and more is, am 
I pleasing to God? Am I in a state of grace? Shall I be 
saved? It seems to me that I do not love Him. Then 
again I imagine that He does not love me any more, and 
does not desire my salvation. I try to shut my ears to 
these suggestions of the evil one and to go on just as usual, 
but I am in great need of your help. I feel as though the 
heavens were as brass above me, and I could not penetrate 
them. And then comes the thought, “You have done your 
best, but your work does not please God. You will never 
be able to reach him.” 

How wrong it is for me to have so little trust. God has 
so plainly helped me in my temporal affairs! How much 


356 


Brother and Sister. 


more will He come to my aid in this matter of my soul’s 
salvation. A few months ago — I told you about it, Reverend 
Father — my brother Paul fell into the river in a place 
where the water was very deep, and I started at a gallop 
for the house to fetch the dog who was eventually the 
means of saving the child. While my horse was carrying 
me along with incredible swiftness, I was terrified by the 
thought that the animal would never be able to take the 
gate which gives entrance to our place. My brother’s life 
depended on his strength and agility. “Dear Lord,” I 
prayed, “unless you give Fanfan wings he will never be 
able to clear the gate, and Paul will drown!” And then I 
was borne over the obstacle by a leap of six feet and landed 
safely on the other side of the wall! And going back my 
horse made the same jump successfully a second time. 

My good angel must have helped me, because the thing 
seemed physically impossible. We tried several days later 
to make Fanfan, with Paul on his back, take the gate he 
had cleared so easily the day he carried me, but, in spite 
of all our urging and his efforts, he could not do it. Was 
not the intervention of Providence plainly to be seen in 
this instance? 

Sometimes I say to myself, when I think of how I was 
assisted that day, “Are you going to fail in gratitude to 
Almighty God! Can you really think that He will not help 
you also to overcome .... 

[ Fragment from her Journal.'] 

September 21, 1854. 

Dear Lord, I am in such a quandary! I do not know 
what I am to do about Paul. Until lately my task has been 
easy and grateful, but for the last few months the poor 
child has taken it into his head to be contrary. To be sure 
he is not actually bad. He does not like to give me pain, and 
his affection for me is still very strong. But he is develop- 
ing such ardent passions, such tenacity of purpose and such 
intense desires. The ego is rapidly taking on alarming 
proportions. He wants his own way at any cost. I can 


From Beyond the Tomb. 


357 


not see that so far he is attracted by what is absolutely 
bad, but I fear he soon will be if his pride is not humbled. 
Only God can accomplish this. As for me I feel more and 
more my own incompetency. The boy is not thirteen yet 
but he looks as if he were fifteen or sixteen, he is so robust 
and so large. He is almost a young man. What frightens 
me most of all is that he is not so pious as he was, and now 
is the very time when he needs God’s aid the most. 

He is very, very fond of me, — that I know, but he has 
less respect for me than he used to have. He fears me 
very little even now, and the time is soon coming when he 
will not fear me at all. I do not know how I can manage. 
Last week he was impudent, and would not obey, and I 
punished him, too severely perhaps, too quickly I know, for 
my impatience got the better of me, and he realized that I 
was giving way to an impulse of anger and of self-love, so 
the correction did him no good. He sulked for several days, 
and I saw that he was growing bitter and beginning to 
slip away from me. I held to my point, however, and in- 
sisted that he submit and that the punishment be carried 
out to the end, but since then I have been afraid to use the 
same means, for an ardent disposition like Paul’s, rough 
and tender at the same time, requires very delicate hand- 
ling. But then how am I to avoid going to the other ex- 
treme? Last Thursday after a misdemeanor of the same 
sort, I let myself be kind and gentle. At first this method 
seemed to be just the right one. The child threw his arms 
around my neck, and begged my pardon. He was very gen- 
tle and tractable as he knows how to be very well when he 
wants to. Undeniably, the second plan is easier than the 
first, and does away with a disagreeable and wearing strug- 
gle; but it does not mend matters at all. Moreover, just 
try to be strict again after being kind for a while! Ever 
since Paul perceived that I yielded, he has been harder to 
manage than ever, and now he will not brook the slightest 
correction. Ah, how hard it is to strike the golden mean 
in bringing up" a child! Father and mother help me now, 
for it was you who charged me with this laborious and 
difficult work. 


358 


Brother and Sister. 


I am thinking whether it would not be better to send 
him to school. There he would have to bend his will to the 
rigor of the rules. Of course my heart fails me at the very 
idea. The child is a great joy to me and my only conso- 
lation, even though just now he is not on his good behavior, 
for I have lost everything else, and the Good Lord has put 
into my heart a love for him which increases all the time. 
However, this last consideration must have no weight. By 
this time I ought to be accustomed to the pain of parting 
with those I love, and if I see plainly that Paul’s own good 
demands this step, I will not hesitate. But then I am so 
afraid he may have bad companions. He is so easily in- 
fluenced that he has to be watched continually, and this 
would be impossible at school. O, Lord, show me what 
I ought to do! 

I have thought of trusting him with Charles to be sent 
to Saint Irenee at Lyons, of which I have heard good ac- 
counts, but I am afraid of Lucie’s kindness of heart, which 
is degenerating more and more into absolute weakness, 
and which would be very detrimental to the success of this 
plan. My poor sister-in-law has many excellent traits, but 
she is entirely lacking in firmness, and devoted as I am to 
her, I can not be blind to this defect. Dear Charles wor- 
ries a great deal about it, because he foresees that later on 
it will be very hard indeed, for their children. I must pray 
more and ask others to pray that I may know what I ought 
to do. 

[To Lucie.] 

Mesnil, December 15, 1854. 

My dear Lucie: — 

You have often asked me to speak freely to you and to 
tell you candidly what particular faults and imperfections 
I noticed in you. I know that you have a sincere and earn- 
est desire to correct your faults so as to fit yourself for the 
important duties God has imposed on you. You are really 
humble, and so I can speak with perfect frankness. And 
now, after asking Our Lord to bless us both, I am going 
to call your attention to a fault of which you are uncon- 


From Beyond the Tomb. 


359 


scious, but which will unfit you entirely for the duty of 
bringing up your children properly. As a wife you are al- 
most perfect, though if you had a different sort of a hus- 
band you might not, perhaps, have all the qualities neces- 
sary. Charles has a firm, decided disposition, and you have 
only to be gentle and affectionate with him, and you will 
always be in accord with one another. But, dearest sister, 
you are also a mother, and as such you have even heavier 
obligations to fulfill. You are pious, affectionate and de- 
voted, never sparing yourself trouble, and, indeed, in this 
last respect you are more apt to sin by excess than by fall- 
ing short; but you are so very indulgent — so weak. You 
must realize this and try to overcome it. You cannot say, 
“No.” You are so afraid of repelling, of opposing or of 
humiliating people, and yet there are so many occasions 
in life when this becomes a duty, a disagreeable duty, no 
doubt, but still a most plain, necessary duty. This fault 
with you arises from self-love; from an excessive desire of 
being liked, of being in sympathy with everyone, and also 
from that love of ease which dread's and avoids a struggle 
or the effort entailed by opposition. Your little girls are 
still too young to have suffered to any great extent by this 
short-coming of yours, but the day is not far distant when 
your lack of energy and decision will be the cause of ser- 
ious harm. Unless you begin at once to be very severe with 
yourself on this point, and undertake to correct it in 
earnest, your girls will grow up to be women of no force 
of character, weak-minded and utterly incapable of bearing 
trouble or pain. What sort of a preparation is this for the 
great duties which await them in after life? Your boys will 
take mean advantage of your indulgence, and will be able 
to do whatever they please with you by means of an en- 
dearing word or a caress. (It is so hard for mothers to 
steel themselves against such arguments as these! ) But do 
not be deceived. This demonstrative affection is sometimes 
altogether on the surface, and is very different from real, 
trtie filial love, which is inseparable from due respect. 
Now an indulgent mother never inspires the respect of her 


360 


Brother and Sister. 


children. She very soon loses her influence over them, and 
before long her authority is no greater than that of a nurse- 
maid. Her boys are quite beyond her by the time they are 
thirteen or fourteen, and then there are loud exclamations, 
pathetic appeals and tearful scenes, which are absolutely 
devoid of effect. 

How much harm you have already done Paul by your 
want of firmness! I trusted him to you to make a man of 
him, and you have given way to his every whim. Two days 
ago I heard from a trustworthy source all about his misbe- 
havior during this first term. O, if I had only known! — 
It was not for this that I parted with him in spite of its 
almost breaking my heart. It was decided that Paul was to 
go to boarding-school, and yet you kept him with you, and 
allowed him to be present at all your concerts and evening 
entertainments, — a mere child like that, who had never 
known anything outside of our quiet home pleasures and 
the out-door life of the country here in Anjou! How could 
he apply himself under such conditions? Was that ful- 
filling your promise to me? 

No; I am not at all pleased. I blame you severely, dear 
Lucie. My affection for you, which I know you do not 
doubt, gives me the right to speak in this way. I insist 
that Paul be placed at once in hoarding-school. If this is 
not done within the week, I shall go to Lyons myself in 
order to rescue him from your misguided affection, which 
is positively dangerous for him. You must not be angry 
with me, dear, for speaking so harshly. I know your hu- 
mility, and I am convinced that it is your due to he 
informed of the plain truth in this matter. 

From your sister, who loves you very dearly, 

Marguerite. 

[To Charles .] 

Mesnil, August 15, 1855. 

My Dear Charles: — 

I sent you a line to let you know of the safe arrival of 
Paul, whom you were good enough to accompany as far as 
Paris. I want to tell you, now that I have had time to ob- 


From Beyond the: Tomb. 


361 


serve him, how well satisfied I am with the results of his 
year at Lyons. After such a bad beginning as his first term 
was, who would have believed that he could make such 
progress and change so radically for the better? Our Lord 
has brought this about, and we must never cease thanking 
Him for it. 

And then the child’s health is so good. This is not the 
most important point, hut it is a great one with me. I am 
not “Mother” for nothing. He has grown a great deal 
and at the same time he has gained in strength. It 
is laughable to see him pulling at his moustache, for it is 
all in his imagination. There is absolutely nothing in 
sight. 

Another amusing thing is that in spite of his age he 
is a perfect child still. I am by no means sorry to see this. 
May he remain as he is for a long time to come! For the 
present his dog, his horse and his gun are sufficient to 
make him happy. 

You still talk about your staff-officer. I have already 
said “No,” to you very plainly. Why do you 

[ Fragment from the Journal .] 

September 2, 1855. 

What a dreadful day yesterday was! What a terrible 
struggle! I needed so much help, and Thou didst not with- 
hold it, O my God. Until now I have refused all proposals 
of marriage without the slightest feeling of regret, but Al- 
mighty God willed that I should gain isome merit by my 
sacrifice, and that it should cost me something to have 
adopted my brother and to devote myself wholly to the 
work of his soul’s salvation. The Good Lord allowed me to 
be attracted by the true worth and the fine character of 
Rene de Saint-Julien. I did my best not to allow this feel- 
ing to take possession of my heart, and it seems to me that 
on that score my conscience is clear. I only went to Aul- 
naie when I could not possibly avoid it, and I even ran the 
risk of appearing to be ungrateful to the countess, who 


362 


Brother and Sister. 


has been so very kind to us. In spite of all I could not 
help loving Rene, and the knowledge that I must break his 
heart was such torture to me yesterday that I almost gave 
way. I would not have done wrong to yield, it is true, be- 
cause I am not in conscience bound to make this sacrifice 
for Paul. Moreover I do not think (though I may be mis- 
taken) that I have any vocation for the religious life. 
Nevertheless, if I had yielded, I feel that I would have 
been ignoring not the express will of God, but that inspira- 
tion which impells me to keep myself for God alone. I 
have a feeling that I have been singled out as a victim, 
who must be ever ready for immolation, a feeling that the 
salvation of my brother depends on my willingness to sacri- 
fice myself without reserve. This idea is not a consoling 
one, and naturally I wish that it did not present itself, but 
I have a most distinct impression that this is my special 
vocation, and I would have been ashamed had I allowed 
sympathy for Ren6 or for his mother to move me. 

May Almighty God accept my sacrifice and deign to 
place it in the scales of His justice against the time when 
my poor Paul may have need of it. May he also console me 
or at least strengthen me a little, for I am so weary from 
this struggle against my own heart. O Lord, put the 
thought of all this out of my mind that I may have no 
desire except to serve Thee without reserve. 

[To Mademoiselle de la Croix.] 

Mesnil, October 8, 1855. 

My dearest Friend: — 

You must know that I am said to be run down, and that 
I am under strict orders to take care of myself. It seems 
to me that I am plenty strong enough and that there is 
nothing the matter with me but laziness, but the fact re- 
mains that our good doctor and Abbe Aubry have laid down 
the law, and I can but obey. I am allowed to visit the sick 
occasionally, but they have forbidden me to sit up at night 
or to teach catechism for a few months at least. They pre- 
scribe plenty of fresh air, horse-back riding and driving, 


From Beyond the: Tomb. 


363 


and wish me to have diversion. This last is the hardest 
part of it; for you know how I dread society. Fortunately 
for me they agree to let my books and my dear piano sup- 
ply the desired distractions. As far as reading and music 
go these orders are much to my liking, for I am, as you 
know, insatiable in those two respects. I know that it is 
very important for me to keep these two desires of mine 
within bounds — not, indeed, for the benefit of my health, 
for reading and playing agree with me wonderfully, but 
on account of my spiritual progress. I know only too well 
that I give myself up, with an ardor which is too natural 
to these pursuits, which, though good in themselves, ham- 
per the soul unless they are perfectly in accordance with 
God’s good pleasure. Yesterday, the Good Lord plainly 
willed that I should have a lesson. I had made many de- 
lightful plans for the day. Paul has gone back to Lyons, so 
just now I am almost entirely mistress of my time and my 
actions. I promised myself that I would spend the whole 
morning reading, either in my room or down by the river, 
according to the state of the weather. I thought I would 
get at a sermon of Bossuet’s, which I had never finished, 
and the first few pages of which had quite carried me 
away. (It is the sermon for Passion Sunday on “Hatred 
of the Truth”). I was going to take with me a volume of 
poems, which I have just received. The author is quite 
unknown, but some passages are exquisite. In short, my 
little literary feast promised to be very appetizing. In the 
afternoon after a walk of an hour or two, I was going to 
practise some Chopin mazurkas and one of Mendelssohn’s 
songs without words which Lucie just sent me. It is a 
long time since I had in prospect such a delightful day. I 
was thinking of it all the time I was going to church, and 
even during Mass and my thanksgiving after Holy Com- 
munion. Alas! I confess to my shame that these distrac- 
tions were voluntary. True it was not a grave sin, but it 
was a venial sin, and for one who has received such par- 
ticular favors as I have, such weakness is the height of 
ingratitude. I am glad that I realize this. It is a grace. 


364 


Brother and Sister. 


But do not be afraid! Our Lord in His goodness very soon 
made me sensible of my fault, and punished me for it, 
too. 

As soon as I returned from Saint-Laurent I took my 
breakfast and started for the Gemme with my dear books. 
The weather was perfect. It was one of those fine October 
mornings which, in my opinion, surpass the splendors of 
summer or the smiles of spring. The foliage is so varied, 
the colors so warm and the sky so pure and clear, espe- 
cially in the morning and in the evening. Nature has begun 
to take on that tinge of melancholy which has for some 
minds a peculiar indefinable charm. So I set off in great 
glee, and was just about to take flight with Bossuet, when 
I saw my respected aunt coming toward me in rapid 
strides. Hardly within earshot, she began to call, “Mar- 
guerite! Come here a minute, child, I want you.” I went 
to meet her, prepared for something disagreeable. “I de' 
pended on you,” she said, “to help me this morning. We 
have to weigh the heaps of fertilizers which came last week. 
There is some for you at the Hutterie, and there’s mine for 
Dervalliere, Soriniere and the Clouet farm. I cannot do it 
by myself, because' it has to be measured and the calcula- 
tions made at the same time. Two can do it much faster. 
It will take us all the morning as it is. It will do you good. 
Durand wants you to have exercise.” I dropped my head, 
and in the first instant of disappointment I came very 
near showing my ill-humor, but after a moment’s thought, 

I said to myself, “Our Lord is giving you the opportunity 
of a more generous offering to Him.” So I put my books in 
my pocket and told my aunt I was very glad to go with 
her. “All right,” said she, “You are a good girl, and I am 
glad to see that you are beginning to take an interest 
in matters about the farm. You haven’t long to learn, little 
one, for I shall not be here much longer.” I followed my 
aunt, forcing myself to be pleasant, but how I raged in- 
ternally! Stable manure, and cow-house manure, fertilizer 
from Angers, Saumur and Nantes, all must be measured, 
put down, added up and— smelled. All this was rendered 


From Beyond the Tomb. 


365 


more agreeable by the detailed and minute explanations of 
my aunt, who seemed prodigiously interested in the work. 

After dinner I thought I would make up for the morn- 
ing by a little Chopin and Mendelssohn. Alas! If I did 
not detest puns I would say that in music I had nothing 
but “contretemps” that day. 

I had spent about fifteen minutes on Mendelssohn’s ro- 
mance in A and was quite fascinated by it. Do you know 
it? It is charming, and when you come I will play it for 
you. Well, I was quite absorbed, and had forgotten every- 
thing, when suddenly Cillette rushed into the room with 
ear-splitting shouts of “Come quick, mistress, come quick! 
Pastourelle at the Clouet farm has taken sick. They don’t 
know what’s the matter with her. I believe it’s the falling 
sickness.” You can imagine Mademoiselle Cillette. She 
combines the functions of farm-hand and lady’s maid. 

Good-bye to Mendelssohn and Chopin! I hastily closed 
the piano and hurried to the farm. The good woman was 
quite seriously ill, and I was kept there until seven in the 
evening. And so Mademoiselle Marguerite, the Good Lord 
gave you another little lesson! 

Good-night, my dear, come soon, and help me to amuse 
myself according to orders. 

[To the Same.'] 

October 11, 1855. 

Yesterday was spent much more agreeably than the 
seventh. If you had only been here it would have been per- 
fect. It pleased Our Lord after the reprimand of the 
other day to send a little recreation. It is sweet to thank 
Him for our blessings as well as for our trials. 

I have been advised to be in the open air as much as 
possible, and as the weather was glorious yesterday, I made 
up my mind to take a long drive. I took some books and a 
luncheon, and started off in the phaeton, driving Fanfan. 
As I went down the avenue it occurred to me that I might 
invite Adele Hardy to go. You know that in spite of her 
really excellent qualities I have a natural and pronounced 


366 


Brother and Sister. 


antipathy to her. There is no harm in saying this to you. 
I argued with myself against inviting her, because, if she 
went with me, I would be dreadfully bored for a whole day, 
and would go home in the evening with a violent head- 
ache, which would be quite contrary to the orders of the 
Faculty. At the same time this was such a good opportun- 
ity of overcoming myself and gaining a little merit that I 
did not think that I ought to let it go by. Then, too, poor 
Adele has many things to disturb and annoy her just at 
present, and I knew she would enjoy the outing, so I con- 
cluded to stop for her. Three minutes later I was at the 
notary’s door. It was then half-past eight. I said to the 
maid, “Will you please ask Mademoiselle Adele if she would 
like to take a drive with me this morning? We will take 
our luncheon with us and be back between six and seven 
o’clock.” 

Presently the maid came down again. “Madame Hardy 
is very sorry, but Mademoiselle Adele is out. She will 
be disappointed when she learns that Mademoiselle Leclere 
has been here.” “What luck!” I said to myself. “You 
must tell Mademoiselle Adele that I am sorry she was not 
at home,” and I signaled Fanfan to proceed. “If only I 
do not meet her at the cross-roads of Croix Rouge!” 
thought I, “She goes that way often in the morning.” 

Sinful nature again had the upper hand. I had made 
my act, but I now hoped to get off without having suf- 
fered anything but the dread of it. “I positively must get 
to the cross-roads as soon as possible,” I said shamelessly, 
“Once past Croix Rouge I have nothing to fear.” 

Instinctively I gave Fanfan a sharp cut of the whip, for 
the first time in my life, and he darted forward much 
amazed, I am quite sure, that his mistress should so sud- 
denly adopt harsh measures toward him. In the twinkling 
of an eye we were at the cross-roads. Not a sign of Adele 
to be seen. I was safe. I checked the speed of my little 
horse, and continued on my way, laughing at my own mean- 
ness and want of courage. 

It was a day of real rest and recreation. After a charm- 


From Beyond the Tomb. 


367 


ing drive through the valley of the Gemme, I turned off 
towards Saint-Florent, where I determined to stop for a 
few hours. I put up my carriage and horse at the “Silver 
Springs” inn and went to get my luncheon at the house of 
a former tenant of one of our farms. The good woman — 
her name is Rossignol — was delighted to see me. After 
luncheon I made a little visit to the Blessed Sacrament, and 
then set off for a certain spot in the shade of a tall grove 
which overlooks the river. The view is very lovely. I 
have often been there before, hut it seems to me I never 
admired the landscape as I did yesterday. The Loire broad- 
ens out at this point, and flows through the center of a 
verdant amphitheater between the heights of Saint-Florent 
on the left and the town of Varades on the right bank. 
The scene is very beautiful, and is admired even by those 
who have visited the most famous places. “There speaks 
the woman of Anjou,” I can hear you say. Quite true, and I 
suppose a certain amount of love of my native soil was 
mingled with my enthusiasm, but that sentiment is cer- 
tainly in the designs of Providence. 

And then what memories are associated with the Loire 
just here! It was here that the Vendeans crossed in 1793, 
that vast throng hounded by a pitiless foe, fleeing from 
their burning homes and devastated fields to wander with- 
out food or shelter. These poor people pressed onward in all 
haste to cross the river, not knowing what awaited them 
on the other side. My grandparents and yours, too, my dear 
Louise, were there, and many of our relatives and friends 
lived through very sorrowful hours at this place. What bit- 
ter and yet what glorious memories! 

These and other thoughts occupied my mind as I sat and 
admired the scene for a long time. I had only read a little 
in my books when I suddenly realized to my amazement 
that it was near night-fall, and that I ought to have been 
at Mesnil again that very minute. As it was, it would be 
half an hour before I would be ready to start, and a good 
hour at least before I reached home. I hurried back to 
the “Silver Springs,” and urged the stable-boys to make 


368 


Brother and Sister. 


haste with my rig, but the horse had not yet had his oats, 
and that meant more delay. What a state Aunt Dumoulin 
would be in! 

At last I was fairly off, though not at a very fast rate, 
for it was already dark night. In my anxiety to reach 
home as soon as possible I unfortunately undertook to try a 
short cut with which I was only acquainted by hearsay, and 
which shortened the road so effectually that I completely 
lost my way, and there I was at nine o’clock at night with- 
out an idea as to which way to turn. To make matters 
worse the night was so dark that I could not see an inch 
beyond the little circle of light made by the carriage lan- 
tern. 

What should I have done if poor AdSle had been with 
me! She is so scarey she would have screamed like a pea- 
cock, and that would have made me lose my head al- 
together! 

Well, I kept on and on, and I became more and more at 
sea. Fanfan stopped every now and then, and tried to 
turn back, and when I made him feel the bit to bring him 
back to obedience, he tossed his graceful head as if to say, 
“What is my mistress thinking of? She is crazy certainly! 
We will never get home by this road!” 

The uneasiness of my horse should have warned me that 
I was taking the wrong direction, but I never even sus- 
pected it and pushed on in the same course. At last, not 
recognizing any land-marks, I bethought me to invoke my 
Guardian Angel, and soon afterwards I saw a little light, to- 
wards which I made my way. Happily I had come upon a 
hamlet of three or four houses. I knocked at the first 
door, and explained my predicament, and very soon I was 
put on the right road. Just fancy, my dear, for an hour I 
had been driving in just the opposite direction from Mes- 
nil. I turned around at once, and Fanfan, flattered perhaps 
at being vindicated, set himself to make up for lost time. It 
was five minutes after eleven when I reached the house. 
My aunt was worried to death, Fanfan was worn out, 
though he had the delicacy to say nothing about it, and I 


From Beyond the Tomb. 


369 


myself was faint with hunger. But except for the fact of 
my having distressed my aunt, I was delighted with my 
day’s outing. I had taken the precaution to carry with me 
plenty of wraps and shawls iso that I had not been a hit 
cold. In short, the excursion did me much good, and I 
intend to repeat it from time to time in order to obey the 
Faculty. 

[To Father N .] 

Mesnil, November 1, 1855. 

Reverend Father: — * 

I make haste to tell you of a very special favor which 
I have received lately. You know that about two months 
ago I made a great sacrifice in rejecting the proposals of the 
Saint-Julien family. I laid bare my heart to you at that 
time, and you will remember that though I conquered in 
the end, it was not until after a hard struggle against the 
wishes and representations of those I love, and especially 
against the inclinations of my own heart. The first result 
of this victory was inward peace, and yet this peace of 
mind did not exclude much suffering and many regrets. I 
was resigned to the will of God, but my act of renuncia- 
tion was not really generous and enthusiastic. I dwelt 
often upon the loss of my happiness in this world, and I 
had almost a sense of injury that God had not seen fit to 
make His Will conform to my desires. I even went so far 
as to regret — though I strove to banish such unworthy 
thoughts — nevertheless I did, in .spite of myself, regret that 
in place of becoming Comtesse de Saint-Julien I must re- 
main the plain little country-girl that I was. I thought 
with bitterness of the immense fortune I would have had 
at my disposal with which to help the poor and unfortu- 
nate, and also, I am ashamed to say, of the advantages and 
enjoyments of every sort which wealth brings in its train, 
of fine horses and carriages, fine friends, plenty of servants, 
costly clothes and ornaments, and so on. Yet before I had 
never wished for this sort of foolishness! Yes, Father, I 
was such a wretch as to harbor regrets of this kind, and 


24 


370 


Brother and Sister. 


even, sometimes, I went so far as to dwell with complais- 
ency upon certain recollections which could only tend to 
encourage and strengthen my vanity. 

I tell you all this with shame and self-contempt, but 
it will help you to appreciate that, although now I am dif- 
ferent, the change is due to the goodness of God and not to 
any merit of mine. On the contrary, such unworthy feel- 
ings and such miserable attachment to the vanities of this 
world should by right have deprived me of favors which 
Our Lord usually reserves for courageous and generous 
souls. 

Now, in the last few days, Father, Ke has enabled me 
to see these things in quite a different light. Not only do I 
remain fixed in my resolution, but I now feel that were God 
to will that I become Comtesse de Saint-Julien, I would 
have to do myself violence in order to make my will con- 
form to His. 

I know that at the least sign from me Madame de Saint- 
Julien and her son would come immediately to Mesnil, and 
that it would give them great joy and happiness to hear 
that I had receded from my decision, but even if I were 
relieved of all responsibility by my brother’s death, even 
if an angel from heaven were to come and tell me that his 
soul would be saved, I would still adhere to my resolution, 
for now the love of Jesus Christ crucified draws my heart 
with such force of attraction that it is impossible for me 
to love or desire anything outside of Him, and I know that 
were Our Lord to give me my liberty, I would only use it 
to bind myself to Him by closer and irrevocable ties. 
What a great grace Our Lord has granted me in thus ap- 
pealing to His crucified love! Thank Him for me in the 
Holy Sacrifice, for I cannot thank Him except by loving 
Him more and more. You see, Father, upon what an im- 
perfect and vain creature God has showered His favors. 
Explain it to me, for it is beyond my comprehension. 

Marguerite Leclere. 


371 


From Beyond the Tomb. 

¥ 

[ Fragments from the Journal .] 

November 15, 1860. 

0 my God, what torments I am undergoing on Paul’s 
account! The wretched boy has abandoned and betrayed 
his Maker. For a long time I would not believe it, but 
now I know he leads a wicked life, and is in a state of mor- 
tal sin. Whether he has yet lost his faith I do not know. 

0 dear Lord, how I am suffering! Beloved Master, what is 

it that I must still add to my sacrifice? Thou knowest, O 
Lord, that my tears flow day and night for this dear sin- 
ner and that I have mingled my tears with my blood. Thou 
knowest that I am ready to die a thousand deaths to bring 
him back from sin! 

December 1, 1861. 

What has become of Paul? For three months he has 
not answered one of my letters. In Paris no one knows 
anything about him. Who will give me back my child? 
Is he sinking deeper and deeper into the mire of sin? Or 
is he dead and already condemned by the justice of God? O 
this terrible uncertainty! Mary, Mother of Sinners, have 
pity on him and on me! I am ready for anything! Ask 
Our Lord not to spare me! 

[To Paul.] 

The Hutterie, December 10, 1861. 

1 write once more to the general delivery, because I do 
not know where you are. You have succeeded in hiding 
yourself from my affection! Do you get my letters? Do 
you read them? O unhappy boy, if your heart is not steeled 
against all sense of pity, think of the awful suffering your 
poor sister is undergoing, and how one word, one line 
from you would relieve this agony of anxiety! What could 

1 have done for you that I have not done? O Paul, if you 
could only know the martyrdom I am going through, you 
would not be deaf to my appeals. If your dog were to come 
to you bleeding and wounded to seek your help, you would 
pay attention to him — but me you do not heed! 


372 


Brother and Sister. 


[ To Charles .] 

Pabis, December 24, 1861 

I have found Paul, and have just telegraphed to relieve 
your anxiety. As I was coming out of Notre-Dame-des-Vic- 
toires, he passed by me in a carriage. I ran after him, and 
he stopped, and took me in with him. Poor boy! If you 
could see the state of weakness and exhaustion in which I 
found him! I took him to the Rue du Bac, and put him 
straight to bed. The doctor says he has typhoid fever. 

For two hours the poor boy has been out of his head, 
and he does not know me. I am going to fetch a priest, and 
I will be on the look-out for the first ray of conscious- 
ness. 

He is seriously ill, and he may not be left to me for 
long, and yet in spite of his dangerous condition my heart 
is full of joy. Before I found him, I dreaded the worst. I 
kept thinking he might be already dead and numbered 
with the reprobate whom God no longer knows, but now 
that I have him with me once more, very ill, it is true, but 
still alive, it seems to me as though the battle were won. 
I say to myself that God helped me to find him in a way 
that was almost miraculous, because He will have mercy on 
his soul. 

No! No! He will not strike him now, while he is in 
my arms, clasped to my heart! My prayers will be a shield 
to turn aside the divine wrath. He has given him back to 
me. He will not tear him away again. O God, if Thy jus- 
tice demands a heavy chastisement, my body, my soul, my 
affections are ready! Strike the mother but spare the 
child! 

Good-bye, dear Charles. I do not know what I am doing 
or saying. I am wild with joy. Pray for us. 

Your sister. 

Marguerite. 

[ Fragments from the Journal .] 

March 14, 1862. 

Paul has completely recovered, but, O my God, who will 


From Beyond the: Tomb. 


373 


heal his soul? I thank Thee, but my gratitude is nothing 
to that which I will have when Thou givest me back his 
soul. It is only his body I have saved from death, and I 
cannot really rejoice, and I will cry to Thee, 0 Lord, so 
long as Thou dost not hear me. I must have . . . . 

May 8, 1862. 

Why, O dearest Mother, have fears and unrest succeeded 
to the deep peace which I experienced at Lourdes during 
that week? You overwhelmed me with consolations, and I 
came back full of strength and courage to bear my cross, 
and now, hardly have I returned when the shadows spread 
over my soul. I walk in utter darkness. I grope for you, 
and call upon you, and cry to you, but you do not answer. 
The waters of tribulation have gone over me. All the pow- 
ers of hell are leagued against me, and all my friends 
in heaven and on earth seem to have abandoned me. I feel 
— and this is the worst affliction of all — as if all that I had 
done and suffered for my brother’s soul were of no value in 
God’s eyes, as if this soul were God’s enemy, lost forever. 
I cannot control my mind any longer. Even my will seems 
to escape my government so that I do not know whether I 
will or will not. O Mother, hold out your hand to me! 

The thought brings with it no sensible consolation, but 
still I do not forget that it is by suffering, humiliation and 
annihilation of all the natural powers that God completes 
His work and that strength is made perfect in weakness. 
I know that this trial will only endure for a season and 
that light will return. But Oh, the difference between 
knowing and feeling! 

[To Mademoiselle de la Croix.] 

[Marguerite’s devoted friend had been obliged to leave her for 
a day or two.] 

The Huttekie, May 10, 1862. 

My dearest Friend: — 

You know what a storm I have been passing through 
of late. A note from Father N , which came yesterday. 


374 


Brother and Sister. 


has comforted me a little. He writes, “I have read in an 
ancient author whose name has escaped me that bird- 
fanciers sometimes put out the eyes of nightingales and 
that they then sing more sweetly in captivity than when 
they were free. This reminds me of your case, my child. 
True, the Good Lord does not deprive you of sight, but he 
allows the enemy to plunge you in this thick darkness 
and to overwhelm you with anguish, because your faithful- 
ness in the midst of trials gives him more glory and you 
more merit than a life passed in peace and joy. Your pres- 
ent afflictions are the measure of the reward to come.” 

By God’s grace these few lines have given me strength 
and courage again. Last night I tried to embody this idea 
in verse. I had plenty of time for it. As you know I sleep 
very little, and I keep you from sleeping, too, poor dear! I 
send you my attempt with these few lines. 

LE ROSSIGNOL. 1 
Moi. 

Mon Dieu, j’ai tout perdu; force, sante jeunesse 
Ma vie est condamn^e an plus ingrat labeur! 

,Qui done pourrait chanter, a l’heure ou la tristesse 
Livre l’ame dperdue aux coups de la douleur? 

Mon ton Auge. 

Enfant, console-toi. Dans son Stroite cage 
Le rossignol captif, qu’aveugla 1’oiseleur, 

A des hymnes plus beaux, un plus divine ramage, 

Que lorsque au doux printemps il disait son bonheur. 

II chante la foret et la verte clairiere, 

Et la reine des nuits, qui monte au firmament, 

Le frais tapis de mousse ou tremble la lumiere, 

Tombant les soirs d’et£ de son voile d’argent. 

Du petit prisonier la voix tendre et plaintive 
Se prolonge d’abord en doux gemissements; 

Puis navrd d’un amour que sa blessure avive, 

II delate soudain en sonores accents. 


1 See Appendix for translation. 


From Beyond the Tomb. 


375 


Enivrd d’harmonie, epuisd par son reve 
Dans 1‘etroite prison qui sera son tombeau, 

II chante, il chante encor, sans repos et sans treve, 

Et ce chant qui le tue est son chant le plus beau. 

C’est le chant de l’amour, chant qui brise la vie; 

Car l’amour est plus fort que le fer et le feu. 

Jesus t’en a donne, la genereuse envie: 

Chante jusqu’a, la mort, rossignol du bon Dieu! 

{Fragment from the Journal.) 

May 20. 

My Jesus, at Thy word the tempest is calmed. A flood 
of peace inundates my soul. I am pained at the very excess 
of Thy loving-kindness, for I see how powerless I am to 
love Thee as I wish to love Thee. Come and take me! 
Come quickly, Lord, for I can no longer live without Thee! 


EPILOGUE. 


The reader can well understand with what emo- 
tions of gratitude, shame and sorrow I read these 
pages in which my dear sister revealed herself to me 
without reserve. I had beforehand a high concep- 
tion of her virtues, but I never suspected that the 
love of God had lifted this generous soul to such a 
sublime degree of self-abnegation and heroism. And 
it was for me, to save me that she had borne, and 
even asked for the bitter trials — for me that she had 
ruined health and strength, broken her heart, sacri- 
ficed life itself ! 

I spent those two days praying and weeping 
near my dear Marguerite. I invoked her as a saint, 
so confident was I that she already enjoyed the happi- 
ness of the elect, and I asked her to crown her work 
by helping me to keep steadily onward in the path 
that leads to heaven. 

And now the time had come when I must part 
with her mortal remains, and consign them once 
more to the earth, where they will rest until the 
resurrection of the dead. Tuesday, the thirteenth of 
May, was the day set for the funeral. Early in the 
morning the Children of Mary, dressed in white, 
came to bear the body to the church and to the ceme- 
tery. They had asked permission to perform this 
376 


Epilogue:. 


377 


office themselves. The funeral train was followed 
by an immense concourse of people from Angers 
and over fifty parishes in the vicinity. All present 
vied with each Other in praising the merits and vir- 
tues of the holy soul who had just departed this life. 
It was told, amid thanksgivings to Almighty God 
for His great mercy, how the sacrifice of the sister 
had not been in vain and how the brother who had 
been the cause of her death was already won by her 
prayers. 

After the Mass, which was celebrated by the vicar- 
general of Angers, the body was borne to the ceme- 
tery and laid in the vault where the remains of our 
parents had been placed. I reserved a space for 
myself at Marguerite’s feet. There I shall sleep 
when my time comes, so that on the day of resurrec- 
tion the penitent sinner may present himself before 
the judgment seat of God under the protection of 
the innocent soul who paid his ransom. 

Here my story ends, and yet I have only set down 
the events of my life up to my twenty-first year. 
Perhaps some day I may write of what befell me 
later. In the forty years that have passed since my 
sister’s death, I have experienced many trials and 
much consolation. Joy and grief, anxiety and peace 
have succeeded one another; such is man’s life here 
below! But I lack the time now to tell of how 
Charles and Lucie, utterly ruined by a great financial 
disaster, died while still young, and left me nine 


378 


Brother and Sister. 


orphans to support and educate. At this time I was 
but twenty-seven years old. At first we had a hard 
struggle for existence, but in the end the Good Lord 
came to my aid, and gave me the means to accom- 
plish my task. I was able to give the children a good 
education, and, thank God, they profited by it, and 
are to-day a credit to their name. 

As for me, I am alone now at the Hutterie in the 
little family homestead. I have become in all re- 
spects a farmer. I myself lead forth my beasts to 
labor, “My great white oxen marked with red,” and 
sow the seed in the soil where I shall soon rest. 

I take leave of my readers, asking pardon for hav- 
ing detained them so long over my reminiscences. 
The work has been a solace in my later years. “I 
love to find once more, under the ashes of old age, 
the living fire of memory.” 


THE End. 


Appendix 


379 


Poppies. 1 

Rochejaquelin, the hero of Vendee, 

M’sieur Henri, “the intrepid,” as they say, 

In his hat, round his neck, on his sabre did display 
Three red kerchiefs of Cholet. 

His eyes were blue, his soul shone in them telling every 
mood. 

His brow was fair, his hair of gold, his age but twenty 
years. 

He was tender as a woman, gentle, too, and good, 

Like the Compeador he knew no fears. 

When he drew his sword, ah! then began the dance. 

“For God, His Priests and His King! ” was our cry. 

He said to his men, “Follow me if I advance; 

Kill me, if you see me fly!” 

The boys they all followed this cock with scarlet crest. 
Where he led, there might his men be sought; 

For d’Elbee and Lescure, Stofflet and Charette, 

All said Duguesclin to him was naught. 


The Blues grew weary fighting these invincible “Brigands,” 
Led by a mere child, and they shouted in dismay, 

“Aim only at the chief: you may see him where he stands, 
With his three red kerchiefs of Cholet.” 

Soon, like bees whose honey was the blood 
Of brave M’sieur Henri, so young and so gay. 

The bullets flew thick around him as he stood, 

The very foremost in the fray. 


l See page 193. 


380 


Appendix 


“They aim at you alone! Take off the kerchiefs red!” 
Cried the men of Vendee, “Ho, there! M’sieur Henri! 

At least hide the one that you wear on your head, 

Or a dead man you will be!” 

But the young man only laughed: “What would you have 
me do? 

Shall I strike my colors? Never! Hide my rank? Not I! 
’Tis an honor to be a target for the foe. 

Avenge me, boys, if I die!” 

These brave farmer soldiers, heroes all in disguise, 

Now adopt a plan of skillful strategy. 

Every mother’s son himself Death defies 
To save M’sieur Henri. 

As they stood under fire every man of them drew 
From his leather haversack, his linen breeches, or his vest, 
A red kerchief of Cholet, and in a flash he too 
Displayed his captain’s crest! 

The Blues, all amazed so suddenly to meet 
In every foe a captain, the bright badge upon his head. 
Now searched in vain for the ear of golden wheat 
In this field of poppies red! 








Appendix 


381 


The Nightingale. 1 


Myself . 


Now that my life, deflowered of all its wealth. 

Is passed in thankless labor, and for me 

All joy is turned to grief, youth, strength and health 

All fled, how shall my song arise to Thee? 


My Good Angel. 


Courage, poor soul, the captive nightingale 
Being blinded by the fowler still does sing. 

Sweeter his note than when in wood and dale 
He trilled his joyous greeting to the spring. 

He sings the forest glade, the queen of night 
As calm and radiant she mounts the sky. 

The mossy bank where shimmering beams of light 
Shed from her silver veil all lustrous lie. 

The tiny captive’s tender plaintive voice 
At first is heard in low and mournful sounds, 

Then loud and clear does suddenly rejoice. 

His love is but made stronger by his wounds. 

The wonders of his dream he ceaseless sings 
In the close prison soon his grave to be. 

And this last song with a rare music rings 
Which never graced his notes when he was free. 

This is love’s hymn which soon must quench life’s fire, 
For love is lord of all, stronger than death. 

The love of Jesus does thy song inspire, 

God’s nightingale sing on ’til thy last breath. 


l See page 374. 


























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